


shackled by the chains of fate.

by リリス - riris (arurun)



Series: in memory of the ones that live again. [3]
Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Death, F/M, Fanalis, Gen, Heavy Angst, I promise it's a happy ending, M/M, Magi: Labyrinth of Magic Spoilers, Maybe - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Sexual Slavery, Sick Character, Slavery, Tragedy, Unfulfilled Relationships, okay I lied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 53,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arurun/pseuds/%E3%83%AA%E3%83%AA%E3%82%B9%20-%20riris
Summary: Second Chances are full of consequences caused by mistakes in the first. This story, is a story of despair. Of loss and of pain, of scars and of burdens. The story of the Fanalis, and of the boy who witnessed it all come falling down.





	1. swallow the wine of death.

**Author's Note:**

> She was strong. But she fell down, and she died.

"How the Mighty have Fallen," he warned tauntingly, "ain't your Prince Charming coming to get you soon, honey?"

She bit back a growl in response, a rumble croaked at her throat in protest.

A gun cocked at her head, but her mind could only swirl in circles that had no end.

"Look, I'll give him a minute, how about that?" it seemed a jest more than an act of kindness, "he's ought to be downstairs, charging his way through our grunts. Let's see if he finds his sweetheart before I blow her brains out, aye?"

She was awake, but her body was like a dead. It could not move and could not function, could not feel. It was numb like the paralysed she would soon be-- and the more she fought against it, the more it ran deeper into her, shutting down the littlest senses she still maintained.

 _Shouldn't have drunk that wine_ , she meaninglessly realized, they had definitely tucked something in it, so tasteless and so scentless she did not notice at all--  _fuck, it wasn't even just a childish sleep drug_.

She felt herself  _ **going**_.

Going  **where**? She didn't want to know yet. It wasn't her time, she believed, and she didn't want to go anywhere but stay right here. 

"You ignoring us, lassie?" the man taunted with mockery, a harsh foot hooking at her abdomen, swinging her body off balance and throwing its limp form toward a wall-- sending her head spindling out of consciousness, a final wave of pain hitting her so strong she gasped and her body threw the last of its energy for a vomit of blood from her stomach.

Everything was numb. Her eyes, her hands; her feet and her fingers; her lungs and her ears; her head and her blood; even her throat was numb to her tongue, vocal chords thrumming but the tongue unable to fluctuate, to form the words she wished to compose.

 _How pathetic_ , she cursed,  _how pathetic I am now, taken down by a measly cup of poison_.

She  **burned**  and  **boiled**  and  ** _bumbled_**  in rage, in hate  _in curse in_ _ **spite**_ _and_   _in contempt--_  but willpower did not prevail. Life wasn't a T.V. show, there was no such thing as the power of will that prevailed over all perilous situations.

"They say that shit works on elephants," one of them scoffed, "it's amazing how she's alive after all that, y'know?"

"I don't think she's in for a long run, dude," another sneered.

_I, of all people._

_Ridiculed, looked down upon by these lowly scum?_

She glowered at their jeering faces, so full of glee and elation; her throat roared in furor as it ripped itself apart in rabid ire.

She forced her fingers to move. Her limbs to wriggle into the place she wanted them; for her body to obey instructions; for her brain to send out those signals; for these motor neurones to do their work. But nothing was going her way.

A childish ring-a-ding-ding croaked out of his corny wristwatch, a requiem so devastatingly terrible it was hard to feel sympathy for-- 

It was over.

"Time's up, miss," the safety thumbed off with a click, "I'll be seeing you down in hell."

She could only close her eyes, submitting to the fate she so, so hated being at the mercy of.

ー

**Is fate decided? And why are we unable to go against it? Who is up there, watching us love and laugh only to fall bitter down?**

**Do they elate in our sufferings? Indulge in our sorrows?**

**Why must we suck it up and bear it? Why is it sinful to reject it?**

**Why must we live with the false belief that our personal decisions mattered in our lives?**

ー

She was not interested in revenge. 

Not any of that hassling bullcrap, wherein one party kills another, and vice versa, over and over again. The war between her  _Famiglia_  and his had gone on for  ** _years_**. 

It was nigh time to put it to an end, with her miserable death. 

 _What was the point of going on further?_ It was clear who was to lose the battle-- her. She had lost men one after another-- to betrayals, to dismissals, to denouncements. 

Even if she were to summon the powers of the gods to bring herself back to life, to take revenge for herself-- was there a necessity to it? Was there value in this new effort? They had more men. She would just be returning to die once again.

She was not a good leader-- strength was all she had, love was something she didn't. No one stayed by her side, and finally, she was left alone on the stage to die on her very own.

It was a fitting curtain call for a wretched woman like her.

She sought solace in the quiet that did not reject her; she found comfort in the darkness of the void that did not make her suffer. 

She hoped she could stay here forever, and finally, finally forget about everything in life that had ever caused her to languish.


	2. strength to live through death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He was weak. He felt gouged out inside, but he will live.

"Oh, not again. Fakhir, get some water!"

Hunched over the sink, mouth slithered with bile and half digested food, Ayaan breathed heavily. He sputtered coughs painfully, each time another gush of stomach acid spewed from his mouth and splashed wastefully into the sink.

His mother rushed to his side, rubbing his small back soothingly as his fit calmed.

Wiping his mouth clean with a soft rag, a glass of water was leaned to his mouth so he could gargle. Weakly, he complied, his limbs only fearing-- and as he shook away another drink of water, he crawled into his mother's chest and sobbed pitifully.

"I'm-- Sorry," he sniffled, his words choked out incoherently, spilling up with whimpers and wails and muffled in his mother's embrace-- "I- I wast-ted... food-- again, and..."

"Don't cry, Aya," his mother soothed him, rubbing his back comfortingly, hugging him close. She spoke softly, gently, meaningfully-- "it's not your fault, alright?"

However, these words were spoken to him so often, they felt painfully empty. It was simply like an obligation, utterly void of meaning. 

Ayaan could only continue to blame himself, his lips continuously vomiting apology after apology, until he eventually tired himself out and fell asleep.

  ー  

He awoke on his older brother's back. A steady ride, a slow and quiet walk-- they were already on their route home from the common cafeteria.

The two were walking alone, because Mom worked in the cafeteria, and Dad worked with the hunters. His brother would be then out with the other children his age, perhaps to help with the harvest-- but he was to send Ayaan to Elder Ilma's residence beforehand.

Ayaan eyed his brother's broad back-- strong, firm and physically adept, like everyone else in this red-haired village of warriors. He was five years older than Ayaan, but he was also five times healthier and five times braver.

"Fakhir?" he asked, burying his face into his older brother's neck, clutching closer and seeking just a little more warmth-- "hey, Fakhir, am I a burden?"

Fakhir leaned his head to the side, letting his brother's head slump to his shoulder dejectedly. 

"No," a matter-of-fact answer.

"But, unlike you, and unlike Mom, Dad, unlike everyone, I'm weak," he was near tears again-- a bad habit of his, being unable to control his emotions and being forced to the edges with just a single, pitiful admission-- "I'm useless. I can't even help everyone out in the fields."

Fakhir sighed. He was never a man of encouraging speech, no matter how sympathetic he felt for a person. He definitely did not see his brother as a bother and a weight on his shoulder-- but he didn't know how to put it into words without sounding like he was forcing out coos of pity.

"On days you feel sick, you can help Granny Ilma weave baskets and stuff. I can't do that!" Fakhir joked, "and even so, Aya, you do twice the work on days you feel good, that makes up for everything you missed!" 

This was the best he could manage, forcing out a smile he hoped looked encouraging enough. Weaving baskets and sewing clothes were the work of the women  and perhaps the elderly-- Fakhir feared his remark may only be taken negatively by the young boy. 

Ayaan was always weak. Born premature, a stomach issue that made him occasionally unable to take in foods. No one knew what was wrong with him-- and no one could figure what exactly was the issue with him. A sickness strange and incurable, in a nation as faraway in the Continent as it is-- no one really had the time and the money to search for a way to cure this.

Ayaan wasn't physically lacking if he tried-- it was just the fact that Ayaan was often terribly malnourished and there was nothing anyone could do. He would have the strength of a normal fanalis on his good weeks. His worst weeks rendered him bedridden or at death's door.

"Today just wasn't a good day for you, Aya," Fakhir insisted, a throaty chortle in attempt to lift the mood, "Who knows? Maybe you'll be able to stomach something tomorrow, right?"

Ayaan did not like that answer.

He did not like that answer-- because it just meant that Ayaan could not do anything about how undeniably weak he truly was. It was impossible for him to grow into a stronger man, and he had to swallow it all back and bear with it.

"It's okay if you're not as strong as everyone," Fakhir tried with words of assurance, raising a fist in a show of might, "I'm here, and mom and dad's here. Everyone in this village is strong, we'll always be here to protect you!"

Ayaan, leaning heavily into his brother's warm back, could only nod in compliance.

"Thank you, Fakhir," he hummed gratefully.

At that time, maybe everything just didn't matter to Ayaan. His life revolved around his family, and this mundane everyday, in a life not of poverty nor luxury-- far at the edge of the world. 

Maybe inside, he believed that as long as his brother was here--  _as long as mom and dad were here_ \--  ** _as long as everyone was here and everyone lived and loved like they did now_** \-- as long as he had this, he thought he would be alright.

  ー  

Ayaan's foot swung, hitting the practice doll. Stabilizing himself, he spun and swung another hard kick-- spinning onto his feet, he swirled and landed one last kick that holed right through the straw dummy.

He breathed out. 

Today was a good day for him. Food digested like it should have, and his body was up and well. It was time for the strength practice he had long been out of.

The little exercise had him sweating, but his breath was still quite stable.

"Twenty-six, eh?" Myron chuckled, her arms folding in pride, "you're getting there, Aya! Listen to this, Brother Muu finally managed to do it in sevenyesterday, isn't that amazing? And Lo'lo did it in three!"

"Amazing," Ayaan breathed, but couldn't be glad about it.

"What's with that face? Even I managed to do it in twenty yesterday!" Myron argued, puffing up her cheeks childishly, "and Fakhir even did it in two! Aya, you're the one that's strange, why are you weaker even though you're a pureblood?"

Ayaan bit his bottom lip.

Muu was a half-blood, and so was Myron. They had a disadvantage in strength, but they made it up with efforts, wits, and skills. Meanwhile Ayaan was lacking in strength, yet did not have the practice and abilities, the reflexes or the adaptability.

"Uhn," he could only meekly agree, "compared to you, Myu, I'm... weak."

Myron seemed to stop for a moment, perhaps realizing she shouldn't have said that. After all, competitiveness in power was inevitable in this strength-filled society. 

Being weak was unacceptable, that was the indoctrination in this world.

It went without saying that Ayaan would feel the same.

She puffed up her chest, and beamed brightly, "I've got an idea, Aya!" her voice was loud and bright, "If you're weak, I'll protect you! Because I'm stronger!"

Ayaan was taken by surprise.

"...Really?" he was hesitant. Maybe he'd heard wrong, or maybe he was understanding it wrongly. Myron, a girl-- was assuring him protection.

As grateful as he felt, he felt devastated. Was he really so weak to need the protection of a girl? 

"I... I don't want to stay weak," Ayaan spoke truthfully, "I want to get stronger, Myu. I don't want to just be protected all the time, it's--"

"Then, I'll keep you safe until you're strong enough!" Myron's snapback was immediate, snarky and impressive, "I've decided that I'm protecting you, no matter what you say! And if you don't like that, get strong enough to beat me in a fight!"

"Eh?" Ayaan was even more surprised now, "Myu, but-"

"Promise me!" she retorted sharply, leaning in closer, backing the boy into the wall.

"I- I promise," Ayaan gave in to pressure, afraid the girl would headbutt him if he didn't, seeing as how close their faces were, "I promise, Myu."

Myron brightened up, her smile shining so brightly it was charming. She seemed so pleased with the response, dancing her way back to her practice doll before she was roaring and destroying more.

Ayaan could only sigh and feel content with it. Life in the village was peaceful, and being stronger was just a hobby to some. It was almost a job, a second nature to the tribe.

Ayaan already knew deep inside that he may not even live long enough to reach an average status of strength for a Fanalis. His body condition only weakened by the year, and his condition was increasingly frequent as time went on. Was it really worth it to make the effort?

Gripping a fist, he gave himself a smile, assuring himself from within.

He still had time to think about it, after all. For now, he can just take his time, and maybe when he turns a little older, he'll decide what he does. 

"Aya, let's spar!" Myron suggested excitedly, "I'll only use one hand, c'mon!"

"That's not fair," Ayaan argued, "if you wanna defeat me, I want a fair defeat!"


	3. life goes on and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm; the fun before the fall.

Today was a good day for Ayaan. He did errands, sending foodstuff to houses where there were sickly, and spent some time babysitting the younger ones at the nursery. He went around with Myron, carrying around huge baskets twice their size on their heads.

Myuron was itching for a race, but Ayaan convinced her that she'd ruin the food.

"You walk too slow!" Myron whined.

"I'm on a steady pace," Ayaan insisted.

  ー  

"Granny, it's Myu and Aya!" Myron raised her voice outside the little hut, raising her hands and yelling much louder than necessary, "we brought the usual stuff!"

"Myu, the nursery is next door, you'll wake the kids!" Ayaan shushed sharply, reprimanding as he put his basket on the ground.

"It's fine, Fanalis babies shouldn't be crying just cause their nap was disturbed!"

"My  _Dad_  cries if I wake him up from his nap!"

"That just means Uncle Amir's worse than a baby."

Ayaan would've snapped back with pride for his father's strength, but the door to Elder Ilma's hut had opened, alarming both children with a new presence.

Elder Ilma lived alone, but the person that exited the hut was not kind Granny Ilma.

"Oh, children! How adorable," he cooed, "your Elder told me to invite you right in."

The man was a tall person-- a narrow figure impossibly thin and bony-- for a traveler, he was not very built. A crosser of the desert, he wore loose and long clothing, and he was worn out. His hair was black, and his eyes were, too. His expressions were humorous and homely, a funny man.

Myron grinned and nodded with a delighted 'uhn!', while Ayaan stood amazed.

Travellers were uncommon, but the Fanalis did not hate them. As long as they spoke well to Elder Ilma, anyone was welcome in this sublime nation. Ayaan, though, had almost never seen an outsider before. 

 _Dark hair, dark eyes_ , he was amazed, _so such strange hair colours existed in the world._

He was thin and looked frail, like Ayaan himself--  _did that mean that Ayaan wasn't so strange to the outside world? Were there more people in the world as weak as him?_

"Let's go, Aya!" Myron pulled the boy in in, carrying her basket with one hand. Leaving his basket outside, the two scurried in. Going past the strange foreigner and making their cheerful way to Granny Ilma's lap.

Unbeknownst to the two naive children, the foreign man stayed at the door for a moment longer-- eyeing the basket Ayaan had left outside, warily searching for other people in the area. His hand was in his pocket-- and his eyes were a little less friendly now.

"Good morning, Granny," Ayaan greeted politely, "we brought food for the nursery."

Elder Ilma was the oldest, wisest Fanalis in the country. Everyone trusted her and everyone turned to her in face of troubles. It could easily be established that this old, grey-haired woman was holding up the Fanalis with her own hands.

Elder Ilma was gaining in age, but she was not losing in wisdom and her tenacity was further boundless. In the state of the Fanalis, the one everyone followed wasn't the strongest in the clan-- but the most charismatic, most intelligent, and most insightful one. 

"My, thanks so much, you two," her hands reached out to rub their heads gently. Her smile was soft and warm, wide and motherly-- "you did very well, so go on now."

Ayaan loved Elder Ilma just as much as everyone else. She was everyone's Grandmother, and her praises were exceptional. It meant acknowledgement, the highest form of gratitude-- and anyone who received such encouragement were instantaneously healed from any murk in their life. It was like magic, except the Fanalis didn't practice magic.

Nonetheless, Ayaan loved how it made him feel all fluffy inside.

They exited the hut, passing by the strange foreigner again-- this time, as they crossed, Ayaan's eyes met the man's-- and he spotted a scar running down the man's chin.

Myron scooping up his basket before Ayaan could, they chased each other all the way down the street to the fields where the adults were working on hunts and crops.

"Charming, aren't they, Mr Wabu?" Elder Ilma addressed the foreigner, who was standing out at the door, watching the children go, "they're very bright children."

Mr Wabu chuckled, "Yes, indeed," he agreed, "they're very energetic, but that's how children should always be, don't they?"

Tucking the now empty glass flask deep into his pocket, he closed the door and returned to his conversation with Elder Ilma.

"Now, about the trade links I was proposing..."

  ー  

"And Myu stole my basket! Isn't she mean?" Ayaan whined, inching closer to his bed on the bed, "She won't let me take anything!"

Fakhir laughed, an arm slung around his younger brother comfortingly as he pulled the covers over them. "Myron's full of energy, isn't she? She means no harm, Aya."

Ayaan pouted. 

"Ah, we saw a man today!" Ayaan cheered up quickly, remembering the foreigner from the day-- "he had black hair! black eyes! Ain't that really cool?" 

"An outsider in this village?" Fakhir was a little more bewildered than pleasantly surprised, "if they just wanted to trade or something, shouldn't they have gone to Cathargo?"

"Dunno," Ayaan slouched on the pillow, "he was talking to Granny. He looked so weird, he was as thin as me and he was taller than Dad!"

"Eh? How does a man like that even look?" Fakhir gawked, "that's scary!"

Ayaan snickered, "Maybe if he's around tomorrow, let's go see him!"

"Eh, I have work," Fakhir sounded dejected, his hands reaching for Ayaan's long hair and playing with a strand, catching a split end and twirling it around in between his fingers. "Lo'lo and I were going to join Dad out in the wilderness. We're gonna try hunting for Desert Vulcans!"

"Desert Vulcans?" Ayaan perked up in anticipation, rising from the bed, his eagerness so hard to suppress he sat down on his knees, jumping around unable to sit still. "What do they taste like? Do they taste like fox or rabbit?" 

"They're awesome, Ayaan, especially if Mom fries them in oil!" Fakhir grinned, describing with exaggerated hand movements, describing his love in an abundance of wholehearted emotion-- "They're so juicy and sweet and-- words can't even describe it! You definitely need to try it tomorrow, Aya."

Desert Vulcans were huge eagle-like birds bigger than a house. It was a rare treat for the village, and it always called for a celebration. Although there had been captures of it before, Ayaan never had an opportunity to eat it, due to his stomach condition-- but he's been pretty well this week! He was sure he'd be okay tomorrow too. 

Ayaan felt his mouth watering at the thought of meat he's never tasted before.

"Drool! Aya, your drool's getting all over the pillow, that's nasty!"

The two burst into laughter, their giggles a delightful chorus ringing in a joyful rhythm. Rolling around their shared bed, snuggling warm and cozy, they comfortably drifted off into sleep.


	4. one day we will fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things come slowly. Like poison, it spreads before it deepens.

"Eh? Muu's not coming with us?" Fakhir lifted his head in surprise.

"Yeah, apparently he's feeling really sick," Lo'lo groaned, throwing his rucksack on his back as he sneered, "he's been sleeping since he came back from the fields yesterday."

"That's very unlike him..." Fakhir muttered, "didn't Omar and Ymir get sick yesterday too? That's scary, is there an epidemic spreading?"

"What's an epidemic?" Lo'lo asked.

"We learned this word yesterday in class, weren't you listening?" 

"I was sleeping!"

The two children bickered, one complaining about the importance of education and the other yelling something about how brains don't win a brawl. Weird idioms came out, and the adults with them simply snickered at the sight.

"Speaking of it, my son's fallen sick too," an adult spoke up softly, to the men around him, "both my sons. They didn't even have a bite of dinner..."

"Was he working in the fields?" Amir--  _Ayaan and Fakhir's father_ \-- asked.

"...Yes," came the reply, "you're not implying that the source of the sickness is the harvest, are you?"

Amir was silent. That tone was accusatory-- and who was Amir to give a stable judgement? The fields were untainted, holy lands. To suspect it was impure and causing the fall of children-- it was something not thrown about without proof.

"It's not a crime to be wary, Khalil," someone else spoke up in a joking tone, "we're here to hunt some yummy Vulcan for our children, c'mon! Don't be so glum!"

ー

Today was a little nauseating to Ayaan.

His head was a little heavy-- was he sick? Not really. The weather was warm, so maybe his head was just over-boiled by the hot pillow on his head. Nothing a little splash of water can't fix.

But this felt more familiar-- as if something was stuck in his stomach like a hot stone-- and it made him lose his appetite. It was the same feeling every morning that told him he wouldn't have a good day ahead.

Sure enough, his first swallow of Mom's breakfast was met with a surge of bile rushing up his throat, his stomach churning as hydrochloric acid burned and boiled in rejection of the foreign substance that dared enter its domain-- 

He was running to the sink before he could taste it.

ー

He sniffled, "but I wanted... to eat the Desert Vulcan meat..."

His mother cradled him in her lap soothingly, rubbing his head gently and easing his cries. "Don't be so sad, Aya, we'll ask your Father to save some of it in the warehouse. Then we can all enjoy it again tomorrow, together."

Ayaan buried his face into his mother's chest, "but what if I'm not okay tomorrow? Or even the day after? the meat will go bad and we can't eat it anymore," he sobbed.

"Then, we'll ask your Father to hunt another one," his mother was very patient, "and we'll throw another feast for you, Ayaan."

Running her hands through her son's long, burgundy hair, untangling knots and brushing down bedhead, she hummed a gentle tune as Ayaan stopped his whimpers.

"Fainan," the aunt from next door called out loudly from the entrance-way, "the Elder has asked for a gathering outside the common cafeteria!"

Mother stood up, Ayaan in her arms. 

"We'll be right over!"

  ー  

"This here is Mr Wabu," Elder Ilma addressed the crowd. 

Nearly the whole village was here, sans the five older men and two boys that went out to hunt. Men, women and children accumulated in the area-- but for some reason, Ayaan didn't see Myuron anywhere. 

 _It's the baggy man from yesterday_ , Ayaan recognized, with the weird creepy grin and the soft face, and the thin arms. 

"And as the elder of Al-'Ula, I have decided to open a route of trade with this man," she declared, "in exchange for our unique harvest, and our hunt, he will bring us the advancement of medicine and technology from beyond the Dark Continent."

 _...Trade? What's that?_  Ayaan was confused.

Everyone had fallen completely silent-- and when Ayaan turned to his mother, her face was one of being absolutely  _horrified_. She recovered quickly, a hasty tone escaping her.

"But-- But we've never done such a thing for outsiders, Elder!"

"Y-Yes, she's right," a man agreed, "we've been closed off for centuries, Elder! Why would we open ourselves now?"

"Why would they come this far simply for trade? They could go to Salalah or Cathargo, Elder!"

Unrest and unease was a clouding, dark fog in the atmosphere. No one seemed to like the idea, and most seemed to tremble in fear at the thought. They were filled with suspicions after skeptic accusations, and Ayaan could only cling closer to his mother, helplessly surrounded by the hostile audience.

"Silence!" Elder Ilma declared, animosity filling her tone, "it is true that we must not put our faith wrongly, It is undeniably that we must honour the goodwill and traditions of our ancestors. However, now we must think of the children!" 

This made the crowd go completely frozen.

 _Move on,_ she said.  _ **Move on from the old.**_

"Many of our children have fallen sick yesterday. Is that not a cause for worry?" Elder Ilma was stern and firm, "we have long lost against Riyadh and Aden in harvests, and we are falling behind Tabarjal in our medical knowledge. We must make it known; we must come to realize that we cannot live on without the aid of others!"

"Then," one man raised his voice, "we could trade with the other Fanalis Settlements! Why must we take our heart to this man who is not only a complete outsider, but one from a land we know nothing of?"

"That's right, Elder!"

"We cannot trust him, Elder!"

Ayaan's fingers clawed into his mother's clothes-- the men were shouting, anger booming in their tones, the loud voices they only used against their prey.

_Why were they speaking that way to Granny Ilma? What did Granny do?_

He didn't understand why they were so spiteful toward Elder Ilma's actions.

"Please, listen to me," Elder Ilma spoke deeper this time. "I am not doing this without consideration, and I do not expect you to trust him without a second thought."

Mr Wabu kept himself scarce, stepping back a little, wary of the intimidating glances everyone sent his way. 

"Khalil, Ahmed, Laiba, Lail, Yumna, Tuur," she seemed to count them like numbers, chant them like a painful list she held-- tears streaked down her old and worn face, her words strong and her voice laden with bitterness, "I am sure there were more we lost to disease; to illnesses we cannot find methods to ail. Even now, we find ourselves giving up the lives of our children to a strange, nameless defect in their bodies." 

Ayaan felt his mother tighten her grip on him.

"When has sickness become a curse for us?" Elder Ilma's voice was raucous, strident and resounding-- "while people out there are living lives of health and security, we are here, where even a fever could take a life! When have we become so miserable? How long will we live as such a dolorous, expendable species?"

To a Fanalis, pride and honour was everything. Loyalty was always of substance. To reject the decision of the Elder was preposterous-- but now... their pride itself was at stake.

"I am not asking you to discard our dignity as a clan of hunters," Elder Ilma pleaded, "I am desiring for us to just lower our ego for the sake of our children-- for the sake of our future generation! Think of the ones we've lost! Think of the ones we can still save-- think of Ayaan!"

Ayaan flinched as eyes swung around to him.

It was suddenly, all of a moment, just about  _him_  now. 

Ayaan was overwhelmed-- was this fear he was feeling? This gaze everyone sent him--  _the cautious gaze of a hunter, the incinerating burn of a glower from a predator_ \-- it made him so, so fearful he couldn't even well up the courage to breathe.

His eyes were stuck downwards, his lips squished into a thin line, his fingers shivering from trepidation he couldn't bear. Did everyone hate him now? Was it because he was weak? Because he had this weird sickness? 

His mother was trembling too, crushed under the pressure of enmity. 

"Ayaan's sickness," one man considered-- his voice shaky, "Elder, are you telling us that we... we can heal even Ayaan, if we agree to this trade with that man?"

"Right now, my son's so sick he can't even get up from bed," another spoke up, discomposure clear in her voice, "Elder, will this trade ease him from his pain?"

"Muu hasn't woken up since yesterday!" this voice was Myron, a voice so scared, so desperate, "Granny, if it can help him, isn't anything fine?"

"Wait, Manama has medicines as its thriving! We don't need to--"

"You don't know it, but we've been trying!" someone snapped, "Manama, Riyadh, Tabarjal... none of them had a thing to say about Ayaan! The Elder is right, we need influence from beyond the Continent! We need medicines from far and wide, where trade is great and where civilization has gone far! We'll never make it otherwise!"

"That's right! It's for Ayaan! We can heal Ayaan; we can make a better future for our children!"

"We must be wrong-- Elder would always put us first before herself," one woman realized, "Elder Ilma is the wisest in the village, after all!"

"You're right-- Elder will always do what she thinks is right!"

"Elder is never wrong. Elder-- we trust you no matter what, Elder!"  


Ayaan, _Ayaan_ ,  _ **Ayaan**_.

Ayaan didn't know; Ayaan didn't know what was going on. Why was everyone acting so weird? He didn't understand it well-- trading? Medicines? Civilisation? What did those words even mean to a child like him? 

_Ayaan, Ayaan._

Why was he the topic of this conversation? He was muddled, confused, bewildered. What was happening? Why him? Was everyone fighting because of him?

Mom was crying. Not of crestfallen sadness, but of brimming, budding elation.

"It's okay, Ayaan," she soothed him, rubbing circles around her back, "Elder Ilma's right. We'll be able to heal you, Ayaan. We can heal you, isn't that great?"

 _Heal me?_  Ayaan was surprised now, the fear wearing off of him, replaced with a more discomforting unease.  _Really?_  


_Why wasn't Ayaan feeling the least bit happy about this?_  


The village cried, sobbed in overwhelming joy, cheered and roared in merriment and reveled in jubilance. They praised the Elder, they sang and declared for what they believed was a blessing to the clan.

When Mr Wabu spoke, Ayaan couldn't even hear him too well. He couldn't remember what exactly was said.

He expressed his gratitude, said something about a promise for fair trade on what he gathered.

He directed their attention to the distance, where his companions-- plentiful caravans full of what we agreed to trade in. He told them they brought wine and nourishment from their towns to celebrate this monopoly establishment. To share with them the abundance of blessings from towns beyond the Dark Continent.

Everyone was happy. So, so glorious, the clanked cup after cup, mug after mug-- they popped out barrels of sick-smelling wine, served up dish after dish of towering meat.

Where was the merchandise itself? No one was in the mood to think.

The euphoria had overtaken all and what they had. In the mid of the day, frolicking in alcohol and larking in debauchery, Ayaan was swept into the flow of the situation, and the banquet was in play and the history-changing declaration in the day was now forgotten.

Carrying around a barrel of wine, serving it to anyone that wanted a refill, Ayaan watched as the village bustled with life and caroused in merry. 

He could not eat any of the luxury shown to him. Today wasn't a good day for him, he didn't want to vomit out any of this glamorous food. Perhaps that was why he felt so unnerved.

 _Nothing's wrong_ , he told himself, masking his skepticism in the voluminous cacophony,  _I'm just feeling overly sensitive because I'm not feeling well_ , he tried to make himself think.

He caught sight of one man talking to his Mother, and he couldn't help but smile.  _These guys were good guys,_  he told himself,  _someone that makes Mom happy can't be a bad guy!_

"Uncle Nasir, would you like a refill of your wine?" he offered, to the bulky old man.

Said man turned to Ayaan slowly, as if in hesitance-- and he did not say anything.

 _Huh?_  Ayaan stopped. For a moment, he thought Uncle Nasir was angry at him. He was unnaturally quiet for a man that was the most competitive in the village... Uncle Nasir eyed Ayaan for one long moment, his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze sharpened--

"...Uncle Nasir?"

Uncle Nasir's grip on his cup tightened-- then loosened-- and the cup dropped from his hands, loosed from its hold-- and met the ground with an imploding shatter.

Next to come down was Uncle Nasir himself, his body leaning to the right, losing strength and defeated by the pull of gravity-- as if a drunken man falling asleep, his fall cracked the ground and he was slouched against the hard, cold brick. It was a loud crash, a quaking, table-breaking boom that quietened half the celebration.

Like a mannequin with cut strings, he was now unmoving.

"Huh?" Ayaan was befuddled, "Uncle Nasir?"  
  


ー

 

This was only the prelude of a tragedy that would thenceforth go down in tragic memoirs as an event that eradicated an entire bloodline.

Yes, truly-- this was the beginning to the end of the Fanalis tribe. 


	5. the scream that resounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic overruns and fear seeps into the crowd. The mood of the banquet is ruined-- a giant shadow looms after them.

"Hey, Myu," Ayaan spoke up-- his voice quiet and dim in the cacophony of the festival, "do we really fall sick that easily?"

He took a sip of the drink-- it tasted sweet, a little sour, he liked it quite a bit. 

"Hm? What are you talking about?" Myron leaned closer with her own cup, "everyone falls sick, don't they? You just fall sick more than anyone else!"

Ayaan was not convinced. He was someone that experienced a wave of sickness at least twice every week-- he wasn't going to believe that everyone felt unwell as often as he did.

"Then," he pulled his knees to his chest, "how often do you get sick, Myu?"

Myron laughed, "I don't know!" she admitted unashamed, "maybe I've only gotten sick once before? I don't even remember how it feels, actually. How does it feel like to be sick?"

Ayaan clenched his fist.

"Akil, Raj," he turned to his other friends, "what about you guys? How often do you get sick?"

"Once, maybe? Maybe my Dad's been sick twice," Akil was nonchalant to the question, "everyone gets sick when they're still babies, right?"

"I've never gotten sick before!" Raj cheered confidently.

"What are you children talking about?" a pretty dancer asked. She brought a tray of new drinks near them, some who had already finished their cups downing another of the sweet, sweet beverage.

"Miss Furoona, have you ever gotten sick?" Akil asked her excitedly.

Bringing the plate to her chest, she smiled, "not very much. I'm strong, after all!"

"Hey, no fair! I'm strong too!" one girl whined, "I've gotten sick before but I'm strong too!"

"That just means I'm stronger, haha!" 

Everyone was taking it as a jovial concern, but Ayaan could only be further confused.  _Then why? If everyone didn't get sick that much, why were medicines such a big deal to the villagers?_

Perhaps it was the lack of serious illnesses that made the village further paranoid of life-risking diseases. The lack of infections meant lesser research was done on a Fanalis for immunity.

If such questions about the Fanalis had been investigated, and medicines were properly tested, perhaps the Fanalis would've realized the issue in the first place.

It wasn't that nothing could heal those Fanalis that died of viruses. It was simply the fact that **the Fanalis were physically too strong** for any medicine from the outside world to work.

But of course, at that time, no one knew.

  ー  

The sun set, and the shadows rose.

The heaviest of drinkers were the first to fall, one after another toppling over like broken statues. Crates of wine spilled over each other, filling the air with the pungent odor of crushed, fermented grapes.

_Were they simply collapsing from being too drunk?_

Ayaan was pushed aside as someone crouched down to Uncle Nasir. They shook him, called out to him, but he did not respond. One man threw Nasir over his shoulder, and they shushed the crowd as they laughed it off as a drunk spell.

Maybe the new wine was stronger than Fanalis knowledge. Outside innovations were strange, after all. Maybe the drinkers they thought were strong were weak in comparison to someone outside-- because wine outside Al-'Ula was so much stronger than what they'd usually drink.

_Then why were the lesser tolerant holding stronger?_

One woman announced that she felt sick, and that she would head home for the day. Someone said she felt more tired than a day's work, and retired as well. They thought it was the euphoria that exhausted them, and told the men to soldier on, and keep the guests company.

One foreigner urged a guy to chug a mugfull, a contest of strength as he down his own beer-- a different coloured booze he said he preferred.

Suddenly everything was just so far away. 

Ayaan picked up his tray of cups-- and he just suddenly didn't want to hold it anymore.

This wasn't like the usual Fanalis feasts. They usually had dances, fires, fights, brawls and laughter. But this one-- there was no fire, because it was still daytime. There was little dancing except the drunken tottering and lethargic swaying of tipsy adults.

Laughter was sinister, haunting, gloomy.

 _Was this really his village?_ Ayaan feared what his mind was bringing him to think.  _Why did everyone feel so strange?_ So foreign, so weird to him? Why did everyone he recognized by face

The banquet only strove on, each second heavier than the last, foggier than the one that had passed, and each minute only seemed farther away than the one before. 

Myuron clung to the wall, her tray clattered over the floor, wine splashing over the pavement.. Her face was flushed and her breathing was laboured-- her temperature shot up high, her eyes were squeezed shut.

Then other children fell too-- one after another, losing their breath and suddenly bearing painful fevers in their heads.

 _Something's wrong_ , they finally realized,  _something's happening._

The banquet fell into silence-- and the parents were now alarmed. 

Myron's parents rushed to her side.  _What's wrong? What happened? Hold on, we'll--_

Ayaan felt something a little different from a fever.

His stomach curled and twisted, and he felt something slosh-- a gush was sent back out of his esophagus-- but this time the hot liquid scalded through him like searing magma, erupting from his throat before he could even think of running to a sink--

Bright red blood threw from him, mixed in with the purple and blue of the sweet, sweet drink he had downed just before. 

He coughed. Choked-- sputtered, each one wracking his body in shattering magnitudes, wrecking his stomach even further and even more blood than he seemed to have circulating dribbled from his mouth, disgorging like an open wound.

His lips parched, his throat burned. His chest felt like it was corroding from within-- like acid melting his flesh, or bugs and parasites and maggots just literally eating him out-- everything hurt. Everything was just painful, painful, painful, it just hurt so much--

He wanted it to stop, but it didn't. He closed his mouth, trying to stop the endless fit-- but the bitter copper flooded his oral cavity and spilled over the edges of his fingers no matter what he did. 

His head pounded. Something rang and screeched like an irritating squeal, a sound so irritating, so unbearable, it made him want to scream along with it.

He clawed at himself. His own strength, the strength of a Fanalis, it was weak but maybe it could be useful for something.

He wanted to gouge it out-- to just tear out the source of this pain. Maybe if he'd gotten rid of this miserable stomach of his, the agony will cease?

 _ **"Ayaan!"**_  he heard his mother wailing, crying,  ** _"Ayaan, Ayaan!"_**

Alas, he dwindled. His body fading out, his eyes diminishing from its light-- he plummeted to the ground with a disgusting squelch, his body splashing right into the mixture of poison and iron he had expelled. 

Something began to spread out.

A numbness, dull and cold, empty. It made him feel better-- it felt like he was being eased from the throes of eternal suffering.

Something in him gripped for movement. No, he couldn't fall yet. He needed to move. To go; To do something, to stand up.

But he couldn't. As if he were stunned and paralyzed, he could not budge an inch. His limbs weighed heavier than he had ever felt it-- and his entirety seemed glued to the ground as he groveled pitifully.

Maybe something was happening to the village now. Was everyone worried for him? He saw his mother's face before him, he saw people shifting about, coming his way, running around, fear filling their pace. 

All he could hear were the bells of his mind, ringing without an end, signalling the climax of a tragedy he would not see.

His eyes drooped lower, laden with fatigue and succumbing to lassitude.

This numbness was somehow comforting...

Maybe because the pain was gone with it?


	6. bound by the shackles.

_"No, you can't die yet."_

Ayaan could see nothing. He could listen for inaudible noise, strain his senses for signs of life-- but he himself was without any.

The world was blank, void, empty. It was the selvage of life and death, where nothing could be of existence-- and Ayaan was simply in the center of it all, witnessing the infinitely barren expanse.

_"No, Ayaan, you can't die yet."_

Who was talking? Who was speaking?

The voice belonged to was a woman. She sounded upset-- very, very devastated, so much her voice seethed with acrimony.

_"I won't let you die."_

Blackness surged from below, millions of black butterflies rushed out in a vortex, wrapping itself around the young boy-- soaring in a cyclic tornado, encasing him in a curtain of depraved flutters.

Ayaan bolted awake from the grasps of death.

  ー  

Houses were aflame, and the trees were red. The sand below his feet was warm, but the dry stickiness of his own blood was cold, cold, and disgusting.

Someone screamed.

The sun was setting now, but no lights were on. Glass windows shattered to his right, and he heard the cries of a child from the nursery. The desperate pleas of a mother to spare her child.

Ayaan jumped up, and ran to the source of the sound.

Metal on metal clanked noisily, rough and painful against skin. Orders were barked, and order was demanded. Horses pulled carriages that were not here before, and they just kept going, going, going. More came, and people were led into it.

Ayaan hid behind a hut.

Strange men with hairs of strange colours were everywhere, and they held shiny, sharp weapons. One man drove a knife into a woman's hand, another held it at the throat of a baby-- and quietly, somberly requested obedience.

Metal trinkets tied down their wrists-- it seemed sturdy and thick, hard to break-- and the red-haired hunters did not resist as they entered each carriage in turn.

The men were on the ground, immobile, numb-- like Uncle Nasir was. They screamed, they yelled, they roared.  _How dare you_ , filled with spite,  _you tricked us_ , laden with animosity.

One yellow-haired man approached them-- and without warning, his large sword went through flesh and cut through skull. Blood spurted from the crushed head, and a scream ripped through the air. The blade pulled out, and the man stomped a hard foot on the corpse's frozen face.

_Be quiet._

No one spoke up after that.

The man smiled with the intentions of a psychopath, slicing through the neck of one man after another-- until his companion stopped him, warning him about injuring precious  **merchandise**.

Ayaan ducked further between the planks he hid in-- and held his breath.

What was happening? _How?_ Everyone was on the ground-- _why?_  Why could no one fight back?  _Everyone was strong, right?_

_Or were we just so weak after all?_

"Mom?" he realized, "Where Mom? Where's Myu?"

He needed to go look for them. _Where were they? Were they hiding? Were they in a hut? Were they on the ground too?_ Were they fighting, or-- w _ere they already in those carriages, or maybe are they already long gone from Al-'Ula?_

 _No,_ Ayaan was scared.  _No, they've gotta be around somewhere._

_I can't have been left alone like this._

He was caked in blood-- his own sick, coagulated blood-- and he felt so, so revolted at the sight of himself. Maybe if the situation were better, he'd have the liberty of thinking of a nice, warm bath-- but now's really not the time.

"Is there really one more kid left?" 

Ayaan flinched and shrunk at the sudden noise beside him. He held his breath again, and kept his eyes down, wide, and tensed, horrified.

"Yeah. We thought it was a dead body, but it's gone. We're looking for it."

Two men-- no, his nose told him three. 

"Wabu's great, he even got the list of all citizens!"

 _ **Mr Wabu?**_ _Mr Wabu was with them? No_ \-- they talked like Mr Wabu was their friend. Then-- _was Mr Wabu the cause of all this?_

Ayaan felt something boil in him.

Red filled the skies and the ground he loved. It splashed across the town, the huts, the buildings, and the people he saw dear to him. Red was a colour he loved-- the colour of their hair, of their pride, of their race.

Now, it was the colour that filled him with despair. 

The colour of blood shed and fought for meaninglessly. They came here, trusting in the choice of their wisest-- and this happened?

Tears trickled down his cheeks-- and his nose stuffed. He only saw what was before him-- men, black, brown, yellow, blue men laughing, counting keeps, tying down his kin and shedding their helpless blood.

They only glamoured at their loss, rejoiced in their suffering that would bring them gain.

**Really?**

_I'm sure you were born for something more, Ayaan. Even if you're not the strongest, the Lord surely has other things in store for you in your destiny beyond._

**Destiny?**

Was this part of our Destiny? This death, this suffering, this trial of nothing but horrifying torture-- was this all fated from the start? It was all decided from the beginning?

**Could anything be more absurd?**

What did they all live for? What did they die for? To be part of this massacre?

Why did he have to bear this? To live a life of suffering just because of an impairment in his body-- and in the end, this all-- this all was caused by him, wasn't it? If he didn't have this sickness, Elder Ilma wouldn't have agreed to Mr Wabu's proposals.

This was all Ayaan's fault.

 _No,_  Ayaan did nothing wrong. _I was just born into the world like this-- why do I have to suffer because of it? how is that reasonable?_

**This was all fated from the beginning.**

Malice and rancor boiling in his veins, Ayaan looked up-- meeting eyes with a blue-haired man.

The man shot back, alarmed, reached for his sword-- "I foun--"

Ayaan roared.

Leaping from his spot, his feet swung hard at the man's face-- bursting nose bones, shattering it to pieces-- but Ayaan was not fazed. He hopped to the next, crushing body after body and spilling blood. 

Pure adrenaline coursed through the blood of the hunter in him. He had never fought anything with the intent to kill-- but it seemed he didn't need the experience. 

He took down nearly ten grown men on his own before he was surrounded and suppressed, a blade carved into his shoulder and his hands and feet bound by heavy weights that didn't allow him the raging enmity he desired to unleash.

He was thrown into a carriage-- alone, shivering and helpless.

 

 

 

 

The world he knew had ended.

 


	7. his roar is no longer heard.

Deep in the basement of who-knows-where, without a single Fanalis in sight or range, Ayaan was alone. Apparently, he was a defective good-- and they were trying to make him become useful somehow.

And he wasn't letting them get their way, not yet.

ー

He was tied up for several days.

 **"The drugs ain't working on him,"**  someone muttered,  **"even if we slide it in his food he throws it up like he fuckin' knows!"**

 **"It won't stay down?"** another groaned, **"that's a fuckin' waste! Those things were expensive."**

 **"We can't put him to work if he ain't being obedient, either,"**  this voice was one in resignation,  **"he won't sell if he's this aggressive."**

**"Aren't we better off killing him?"**

The cell was cold and empty.

His arms lifted above him, his wrists were rubbed raw and red. The chains were black and heavy, dull and icy-- he tried to tug at it again, but his elbows were sore from the effort and his shoulders whined painfully at the long stillness.

His fingers seemed to lack the blood it needed-- skin freezing against skin even as he closed his fists in attempt to conserve heat in them. 

His lips were dry, sticky, and his throat was flared up in pain. He was thirsty, hungry-- but nothing he ate would go down, so he stopped trying.

The front of his clothes were stained in the disgusting red of his own bloodied vomit, a horrible mixture of orange, red and purple tossed together, now dried and sticking to his chest.

He was tired-- tired, very  _tired_ \-- but he wasn't able to sleep.

The hunger ate him up, pain wrecking him in the most potent of desires, over and over again, endlessly-- he could only wait and wait and hope the pangs subsided.

Occasionally his consciousness would fade out, the exhaustion taking him-- but he'd be sharply routed awake by the ache that stabbed inside him, screaming and screeching for just something to eat.

Choking back sobs, he only waited for time to pass.

**"At this rate, if he doesn't eat, he'll die anyways."**

**"What a waste of a Fanalis."**

  ー  

**"Well, if we're speaking inferior goods, we have a few back here that you may be interested in..."**

Ayaan's eyes lifted at the noise. 

For the first time in months, light poured in from the main entrance of the nasty prison cell. It hurt his eyes a little-- so Ayaan kept his eyes closed.

**"This is..."**

The voice was very close. Not more than three meters before him, behind the smell of soggy iron-- the smell of a human, an adult male-- with clean, rich clothes, and various metal trinkets on his body that clanked and chimed noisily like a fancy chandelier of his own.

Ayaan remembered-- how he heard someone crying each day. The sound of gold coins chiming as they rustled in a brown sack, passed from hand to hand-- then someone's chains would be tugged on, and handed to a man no one knew.

That was how this slave trading thing worked.

**"A Fanalis?"**

Ayaan tensed, his fists squeezing in alarm.

**"This one, he has quite a bad temper, you see..."**

Ayaan's eyes rose with craving  indignation-- his sight was heavy as he growled under his breath, eyeing the man with a wordless threat.

The man was bronze-haired. Brown-eyed, and his hands shone with silver.

 **"Feisty one, eh?"**  he seemed elated.

 **"Personally, I do not recommend it-- he is a hard one to maintain,"** the slave trader sighed,  **"he barks and bites, and he's rebellious enough to stave off the food he is given."**

 _Merchandise_ , Ayaan realized, the fact he was lower than human to them-- like those beasts his father would hunt and bring home, like those livestock only raised to work or be eaten.  _They're treating me like I'm a dog or cat. A beast, a wild one, that's untamed and irritable._

**"He's still a Fanalis, isn't he? Does he not boast power?"**

_Power_. Ayaan was strong. The Fanalis were strong compared to their weak humans who can't even dent a metal bar with their own strength. Who can't even pull along a beast without immobilizing them first.

Tugging his bleeding wrists through the painful shackles again, he bit down at his lips and hoped the stupid, stupid iron would just break already. If his hands didn't hurt this much, it would come off so easily.

No, only the chains would break. The shackles were tough and thick and would require much more than just a rough yank to remove. His hands were tied together in this miserable piece of wood and metal, stained red from effort-- but it was nowhere near the littlest edge of shattering.

_Why do I have to bear with this? Why do I have to stay here and listen to them talk about me?_

Something in his head was hazy and hot. His stomach was numb-- but if he did as much as shivered, it would rip with an agony that brought tears to his eyes.

 **"It does not matter-- I simple seek slaves in quantity, so it does not matter if they last long,"**  the man's voice seeped with sinister yearnings,  **"I need workers for manual labour, you see... isn't this one just perfect for the job?"**

He wanted to eat.

Food-- anything-- something, just anything. He's had scarce meals over the past year in this hellhole-- they'd stopped wasting drugs on him ages ago, but this time it was Ayaan's stomach that rejected the food itself. 

No matter how much he wanted to eat, he couldn't swallow anything that wouldn't pass down. Sometimes they'd neglect to feed him, and other times he'd spit out the first food he'd had in days. 

Even if he were finally able to down something-- they would be angered, annoyed by something or another, and Ayaan would be kicked, punched, thrown about around his clammy little box-- and the food he ate would go to waste again.

He couldn't even muster the strength to break out of these chains he could've easily been shattered with time.

He was weak.

**"Well, if you would so desire..."**

Rusted metal bars clicked and snapped open, both men taking a step inside and barely suppressing a repulsed gag at the stench.

Ayaan shrunk back. His limbs were limp and sore-- he couldn't even budge much farther under the restraints-- 

He was scared. Someone had come for him-- someone-- but why? It wasn't hard to guess.

To these humans the Fanalis would be nothing but a strong monster. If they could tame it, they would let it work for them in hard labour.

They would force him to use his strength, day after day after day after day-- and at the end, Ayaan definitely wouldn't be sitting on a nice table and eating in warm houses.

He would be whipped if he stopped. He would be yelled at if he dallied. He would get measly meals and freezing nights, insomniac phases and exhaustive treatment. Perhaps, if his output didn't come up to par, he'd be put down.

Someone clapped twice, calling for his men.

**"Get this one cleaned for our customer."**

The Fanalis were stronger than beasts, but if they had a weakness, it was the fact that their minds and their hearts were as fragile as a human's.

He had no voice of reason or refute. He had no strength to rebel or resist.

He gave in to fear against what would come next, and despaired in this alienation he had to bear alone.

**"No worries, sir... after all, it takes much more than this to kill a Fanalis."**

 


	8. and he can only endure.

He flung the whip, resounding a slap like thunder, pain as piercing as burning ice. 

Ayaan winced, shooting back with an instinctive fear, tears escaping him from the searing prickles that wouldn't leave his arm. The metal pipe at his shoulder slipped from its spot in the crook of his neck-- unbalanced weight shifting his center of gravity, his footing was lost and he tumbled.

"Quit lagging around," the booming voice was fierce and rang in his ears, "move!"

Biting back tears, Ayaan reached for the steel beam, picking it up quickly, throwing his feet forward as he soldiered on.

They were building a fort of sorts-- a wall, high to reach above their heads-- why? No one could ask. Were they preparing for a war? No one wanted to know.

They just knew they had to keep  _moving_. Move this over there, that over here; to connect this bit and join that bit. Build and build and build, day after day-- they simply did it without complaint, because if they didn't, they'd get whipped.

They were dolls, made to move according to orders made.

And now, Ayaan was just another one of those irrelevant, easily replaceable objects in the cycle of life.

If he wanted to eat that night, to sleep with a roof over his head, he had to go on like this. Living as less than a human, obeying orders given to him without question and without delay.

That was how his life had to be. 

How did it even end up like this again?

  ー  

He vomited into the corner, his already weakened body pushed to its limit-- his head pounded, his stomach growled-- rejecting the measly slave food he desperately wanted to eat.

He was hungry, hungry and hungry-- better than his previous period of being stuck in the dark for months-- but he was tired. Tired, tired, so, so exhausted his head could only want to collapse right down there now and go out like a light until the bells rung for dawn.

But he knew if he didn't eat, the next day of work would be rough. The slaves were blessed enough to get a meal a day, but that meant nothing if Ayaan didn't eat it.

Nothing made Ayaan curse his body more than now. 

His first days here were nothing less than hell. His wastage of food caused him to be notorious and stuck in isolation. Even now, Ayaan's cell was kept separated from the rest.

He was being kept here, he realized-- because he was a Fanalis. The strongest hunter race, one that boasted the strength of ten men, the power to defeat beasts. If he were around, their construction work would proceed smoothly-- that was the one and only reason Ayaan was kept around a little longer.

He curled up in his damp isolated cell, and prayed, prayed, prayed for morning to come. He turned away from the untouched food his stomach rejected, and hoped that tomorrow night's food would come already.

He prayed tomorrow's condition would come today instead.

ー

Ayaan swallowed his food gratefully, taking large bites and downing it impatiently. He rushed his utensils to the next scoops of food he took, shoved it in his mouth before he had finished chewing-- not that the mushy food even needed much chewing to begin with-- and slid it down his throat.

He felt like crying just knowing he got a meal today.

To think that was such a celebratory occasion in his head-- just how far had he fallen? How low have the Fanalis sunk?

The hunger in his stomach wasn't near subsiding just yet-- but he made himself believe it was just a little better than before. He forced himself to think he was fine now, because he had eaten something, so he's not dying yet.

If he worked every day, he'd get something to eat, ven if he wouldn't have to keep suffering this hunger.

As long as he worked, it was fine.

It was fine.

ー

A number of months later, the fort had been completed and the slaves switched to doing work for the cleanup of the area.

When after that was done, the master of the fort brought the slaves together and sold them back into the slave trade.

 _They were only temporary_ , Ayaan heard the noise in the air,  _simply here_ _to quicken the workforce. They're unsuitable for daily use._

Ayaan followed the chains that led him up the road; he clung to the shackles that pulled him forward, and dragged his feet against the heavy ball of metal that kept him grounded.

Ayaan was sent to get another area constructing buildings, where he spent his days weighed down by bricks and blocks more than twice his weight; where he laboured day after day doing work that took full advantage of his racial strength.

Then when the building was completed, he was returned and sent elsewhere.

Otherwise, he was sent to the ports, where he worked to transport heavy goods up and down ships until night fell. The slave trader took every opportunity to rake in money with this powerful bullforce he owned, a boy that was a Fanalis.

Ayaan changed owners more often than the other slaves-- many took him in with the intention of keeping him, but after realizing how financially taxing his physical condition was to support, he was promptly returned when he had served his use.

It really made no difference, to be honest. He was similarly being dragged around all the time.

  ー  

Curling up in his bare,  algid cell, he clung to the warmth in his chest and conserved as much heat as he could within his body. 

He shivered, his teeth chattered. The wintry conditions seemed worse than usual tonight, his sight blurred by the lead that weighed his eyes down. He was too cold to sleep, yet, the chilly conditions lulled him further through his exhaustion and consistently drowned him into a sleep that felt more like death.

A small mouse ran over his palm, it's gritty, greasy paws squirmed as Ayaan shook it off. The cage stank and dripped with moldy rain. It was cold and wet, and whenever Ayaan faded out of consciousness, a rodent would gnaw at his ears or chew at his fingers, mistaking the boy for a corpse.

It was a restless night, and Ayaan had little choice but to bear with it. The shackles on his arms were bulky and heavy, the skin underneath thinned and red. The weights on his legs gave him only the littlest freedom of movement-- the huge metal ball clanked irritably to one side with each step he tried to take.

"Get up, Fanalis," the holler was sharp and agitated-- Ayaan, not knowing when he'd collapsed, opened his eyes braced for a form of impact-- a punch, a kick, or maybe it would be a whip?

Instead, a hand grasped at his hair and tugged him upwards.

A tut, a wince of disgust-- the man gagged in repulse.

Ayaan could not resist-- his limbs were out of strength, weakened like the life was sucked out of them, lolled to the side like broken doll pieces. Everything was just unnecessarily heavy and hot-- his brain felt like a burning stone, each bob of his head sent it thucking to one side painfully, spinning his senses into nauseating discomposure.

 **"He's got a bloody fever and his ear's infected,"**  he spat, **"who was in charge of this cell?"**

His left ear, nibbled on by rodents and masticated by maggots, burned green with a sting that came from the black and white gangrene that clumped at its surface.

 **"It's the new guy, huh?"** the man was still talking,  **"No helping it, then. Get a medic, we're cutting this off."**

Huh?

**"You sure we ain't better off disposing him?"**

**"Nah, if it's just a ear, he'll heal,"**  the first man drew a knife from his back pocket, simpering eerily,  **"I mean, what's a missing ear to a Fanalis?"**

Ayaan felt his heart sink.

What were they saying? What were they trying to do?

 **"What if he dies?"** the man actually sounded awfully concerned.

**"Well, we were going to dispose of him anyways, right?"**

Ayaan clawed at the man's arm-- something in him feared. Much more than any beast, any other monster, this older man scared Ayaan much more than the world. 

Ayaan had no strength to resist-- oh, was this what it felt like to be sick? His senses were muddled, blurred, and confused-- but one thing in him knew that he had to get away.

His hand gripped the man's hard-- the man cringed and threw Ayaan off. 

**"How the fuck is he still that strong?"**

**"Seems you're underestimating a Fanalis."**

**"Fuck, I'm bleeding!"**

One hard punch across his face sent Ayaan sprawling-- and with the numbness, the dread and the corroding acid burning at his ear, Ayaan was powerless.

The knife leaned into skin at the base of his ear-- and Ayaan could only close his eyes and brace himself for the agony.

 


	9. he falters. he cannot.

Kicking down a man, Ayaan stepped on his face, hooking his knee over the neck-- and twisted to the direction of gravity. Landing on his hands, Ayaan hopped back up, grasping at another man's clothes, flinging him airborne.

A word not escaping his lips, Ayaan landed clean on the ground, lifted his head-- his Master's carriage was only twenty meters forward. 

He caught up to them in no time, hopping into his seat beside the horseman-- a fellow slave.

The horseman only rode on, barely taking note of the new presence beside him.

They traversed the desert with five carriages by them, each drawn by magic beasts that could run long with little rest. They were crossing the dark continent, to hunt for those rare beasts that were considered delicacies to the outside world.

There were three Fanalis on this journey, aside from Ayaan himself-- a large man that went by the name Yaqut; and his younger sister Razol, a scarred beast with a small but strong frame. 

They were slaves of one of the two merchants heading this group. Ayaan belonged to the other-- so the three were hardly allowed any form of contact with each other. 

They fought better than Ayaan, being healthy purebloods. 

Those two were not from his village, because although they were in similar ages, Ayaan had never seen them. They were from other cities-- did that mean other Fanalis towns were ravaged too? 

Ayaan didn't know if he was interested.

His hair was long to his shoulders, crinkled and charred, but often combed in accordance to his master's instructions. His hands reached out to the left of his head, where a horrendous scar gouged at his head, welded terribly together in an ugly deformity.

Noise was muffling, suffocating to hear, but Ayaan hadn't the liberty to complain. Loud sounds made his head ring, but it was all part of the disability he now had to live with.

It had already been two years since then.

Surprisingly, his value as a Fanalis slave rose as he got older. He supposed his body got stronger with his age, being able to bear more of the pain and more of the hunger. He could sense when he could eat-- when he couldn't-- and although he occasionally spent days without food, he was fine because he knew he had to be.

It's not as if he'd die that easily.

The chains bound unto him restricted his movements-- but did not stop him from running free. Yet, what was the point? If he ran off now, into the desert, not looking back-- no one would be able to stop him, to catch him.

However there was fully no point.

He's worked with many people over the years-- debt collectors, merchants, builders, landowners, and slave hunters. they made it clear-- very, very clear that no slave could ever run off without permission. Even if you ran away and hid, you'd be picked up by another trader and returned to the cycle of selling and returning.

Ayaan's Master this time wasn't his best. He was a shrewd man that saw Ayaan's ear as his charm, yet told him to hide it so only the man could ever be seeing it. He was a man that would only expect the best from Ayaan in battles-- yet was very patient about his body condition, never seeing the wastage of food as an expense of money. Many of his previous servants were only tormented to death, succumbing to the affection then dying in duty.

_**Duty.** _

_What 'duty', you ask?_

"You," the maidservant approached the front of the carriage, "the Master wishes to see you."

Ayaan turned around with a knowing glance. Gripping his fists, he pulled the curtains aside and made his way to the back of the carriage.

Seated on a large, fancy chair, a man he had to call Master sat proudly above, clustered in a variety of gold and silver and gems. His hair was a shade of blue dimmer than the sky, deep as a bubble of blueberries.

Holding his hands behind him, crossed, Ayaan stood straight.

The man considered Ayaan carefully, sternly, deeply-- scrutinizing Ayaan from head to toe, as he did every day, every moment, every night-- the man cracked into a smile as Ayaan closed his eyes, eager to hide the disgusted emotions that rose in him, biting his lips odwn a little harder than his neutral face to suppress a change in facial movements--

One short, simple order-- but it was the scariest order Ayaan had ever, always received.

"Come here."

The maidservants left this side of the curtain-- and Ayaan felt truly, truly, alone.

ー

Living as this bastard's slave was much better than working vigorously day after day in a construction site with little food and paltry cells. This master was patient and kind, and gave his slaves food and decent conditions at the price of their labour.

As long as Ayaan continued guarding his carriage against magical beasts, and kept him company in the nights, the man was very content with Ayaan. 

As repulsive as it felt, Ayaan bore with it.

As soon as he was tired of Ayaan, Ayaan would be thrown away-- and Ayaan hated the thought. AS much as he despised the man-- the man gave him the care he couldn't get otherwise-- a form of love, warped love-- who else would keep a pleasure slave with a grotesque, deformed ear? Who else would take in a slave that was weak and sickly and wasted food?

He hated, hated, hated it so much.

Yet, he feared what came next. Would his next master kick him around? Would he be whipped at every time he stalled again? Or would it be like the one that burned marks onto his back-- or the one that shoved his face into the river if he disobeyed?

He stood with the poise of dignity-- but deep inside, it was anything but that.

His hands were bound behind him by chains of fears, chains of this pride he was so tied to. His feet were compelled by shackles that held him down only by whim. 

The metal was thick and like ice, reminding him truly how cold the world was-- yet, hiss heart burned much, much colder in comparison.

He knew he had to run away while he still could. It had been long since he'd seen those thick restraints the other two Fanalis slaves wore-- the ones that were specially made to impel them. The ones Ayaan wore were easy, simple, not hard to break-- even just a little snap of his wrist would make these crumble and become a bygone.

He had strength and he had health-- but it was too late now.

These physical chains no longer held him down-- they were only worn by symbolic significance-- it was only there to mark him as a slave. It didn't have the purpose of holding him down at all.

And yet-- Ayaan hesitated before it. It was only his most prominent dream to attain freedom. He had to break them, he had to run. To flee, to return to his family, to be free forever.

**_But what then?_ **

Home? which way was homeward? Where was he now, where was home? 

 _No..._  he couldn't even remember the name of his hometown now. What did it look like? Why did it mean so much to him? Where even was it located?

Ayaan was much too young before this-- he had never heard of anything beyond his country, aside from myth-like stories and strange fairy tales. He had never been out of his town before.

In all these years, he had met little Fanalis in his journey-- they were all slaves, prideful combat beasts that didn't spare him a glance at all. 

What were the Fanalis? Who even were the Fanalis anymore? 

All he could gather about them was that they were dangerous, feared beasts, and many loved to abuse the overpowering strength they held.

His first memory of behind pressed down by sheer numbers, weighed down with arms of mere humans-- thrown aside and broken down by pain he had to succumb to-- these wer eall warning imposed on him during attempts of escape.

Ayaan feared broken bones the worse. If his legs were unusable, he was meaningless. It had happened before-- and it took no less than a miracle that he didn't become monster feed. He would have become prey of the beasts he had hunted down the same day. He would be useless without his feet-- and a useless combat slave was no better than a corpse.

Ayaan could never-- can never-- run away.

 

 


	10. in memories he sings without despair.

"Muu, what's the country outside like?"

Ayaan and Fakhir were curious. Ayaan sat in Fakhir's lap, and Myuron was slouching into Muu's. the four were in the common room after supper, relaxing. 

"It's super pretty. There's white marble walls, large pillars, and everyone has gold hair!" Muu exaggerated, his eyes brimming with excitement.

"It's true, it's true!" Myuron interrupted very animatedly, "Everyone huge and big-- not as big as Papa or Uncle Nasir, but in this huuuge arena place they fight magic beasts like we do in the desert!"

"It's called a Colosseum," Muu helpfully supplied, "sometimes people fight people! Everyone cheers and shouts when they do something cool, it's awesome!"

"So basically it's like how Akil and Raj fight all the time, but with a crowd?" Fakhir mused.

"Uhn!" Myuron piped up.

Muu and Myuron were half bloods. They were born in Al-'Ula, but their father was a man from the outside world. A noble-- no, one of the purest of royalty-- a descendant of the first king of the Reim Empire. Muu was considered an apprentice knight there, and had spent various years in Reim during his childhood.

He only returned to Al-'Ula every once in a while because his mother had ties and obligations to Elder Ilma. They came and went often, so although Muu often disappeared, he only came back to a more welcoming family.

"There's this super pretty person called Schehe too!" Myuron chimed up, "she looks like she's my age, but she's super old!"

"Sheheh?" Fakhir asked, "that's a weird name."

It was pronounced strangely, and since most of the Fanalis tended to have simple names, this one was strange to Fakhir.  _The outside world was really strange_ , Ayaan now knew--  _it's like a different universe entirely._

Ayaan couldn't even fathom how amazing that could be.

"Old, as in older than Fakhir?" Ayaan was interested in something else.

"Older than Mom!" Myuron grinned.

"Cool!" Ayaan sparkled.

Hearing the adorable interaction, Muu chuckled dryly at the sides. He muttered under his breath, "she's older than Granny Ilma..."

"What?" Fakhir gaped.

Muu nodded grimly.

"I wanna see!" Ayaan leaped into the scene, hoppping into Muu's lap, "I wanna see the Laem Empire, Muu! Bring me with you next time?"

Myuron swung around, landing neatly into Fakhir's lap, raising her hands erratically, "I wanna go too! I didn't go last time because you said I wasn't old enough to be a knight yet!"

"Oh, then I wanna go too!" Fakhir spoke up quickly, "I wanna be a knight, I'm stronger than you after all, Muu!"

"Ehh," Muu seemed reluctant, "I'm not sure if Dad would let you guys go.. even so, it's weird for a Fanalis to be there y'know? Like, i'm a half blood, so it's okay, but the older knights are pretty competitive even against kids."

"It's okay, we'll be Fanalis Knights!" Ayaan grabbed his clothes, pouting, "I mean, how cool would that be?"

"No, it's a little complicated..." Muu tried to reason, wrapping his arms around Ayaan tenderly, "y'see, Lo'lo and Fakhir can be stronger than an adult foot soldier. They don't like that, y'see, so they'll get angry, and they'll bully you!"

"Eh?!" Ayaan and Myuron simultaneously cried, "Muu, are you bullied?"

"No, I'm a half-blood," Muu frantically corrected himself, "so like, I'm weaker than them!"

The two children were on the verge of sobbing-- oh no, is Muu dealing with such discrimination outside, alone? They didn't like the thought. Maybe next time he left, they'd hide Muu away so he didn't have to go-- or they'll go there just to defend Muu!

"Then," Fakhir found an idea in his head, "you're royal blood, right? Why don't you just become the highest? You have the name and the authority, right?"

"Totorigity?" Ayaan asked.

"It's catogity," Myuron corrected him.

"No, it's  **authority** ," Fakhir was exasperated, "it means Muu has the power to tell people to do things, because he's the child of a royal person."

"You're a king?!" Ayaan gawked.

"No, I don't wanna be one..." Muu insisted, "I'm fine if everyone's happy-- and I don't need to be on a golden chair to do that, right? I'm still weak, so although I'm royalty, I'm still low in the ranks of knights. It'll take me ages to get anywhere worthy, even if I'm directly acquainted with the priestess."

Fakhir nodded, "but, if you did manage to get up there you can, maybe, create a whole new kind of knights?" he asked, "imagine a whole division of knights with only Fanalis! Ain't that sound awesome? 

"Fanalis Knights!" Ayaan fawned, "I wanna be in it, I wanna!"

"Me too!" Myuron cheered, "and of course, Brother Muu's the leader!"

"Ehh?!" Muu freaked out, "me, a leader? No, I'm a half-blood--"

Fakhir laughed heartily, "that sounds great! I'm all up for it, but of course, I'm gonna be the strongest in the squad! Muu, you can have the annoying job of a leader."

"You just called it annoying!" Muu snapped back. 

With a sigh, he fell and lay on his back, giving up. Ayaan was lying on his chest, but he really didn't mind.

"Sure, that sounds great, then, when I make it big in Reim, I'll make the Fanalis Knights a thing," Muu resigned himself to the suggestion, genuinely finding interest in it. "No one's allowed to look down on them-- and no one can discriminate against them. We're strong-- we'll be the pillar of Reim together, as the strongest Knights Reim will ever boast."

He looked at Fakhir with a smile, raising a finger to point at the other in emphasis, "so you better become my second-in-command, Fakhir!"

"Sure, I'll be the most useless second-in-command you'll ever see," Fakhir grinned cheekily.

"I'm gonna work your _ass_  off!" Muu retorted.

"Language in front of the kids, Muu," Fakhir groaned.

"Hey, Myu, do you think it's possible for people to work without a butt?" Ayaan inquired in audible whispers to the girl.

Myuron shrugged, "I'm not a kid, I'm already five! I'm a woman now!"

ー

ー

Ayaan woke up.

The cold air blew into his bones, freezing him up with nothing but cold, harsh reality. It hurt him much harder than expected-- and the little ringing sting in his skull only made it so much worse.

He felt tears spill from his eyes.

Biting down on his lip, he choked back a sob as he dried his eyes. Feeling a familiar churn in his chest, he left his spot on the ground and made his way out of the tent.

He made it a short distance away from the tent before everything in his stomach ran up his throat and dripped down his chin. He felt utterly exhausted, and his whole body ached. 

Wiping it off with his arm, Ayaan turned away from the guck and thought he'd go down to the river to wash up. He was the only slave in Master's abode that was allowed that freedom, after all-- if he felt disgusting, maybe a dip in the river could heal him up.

"You alright?"

The person was upwind from Ayaan, so the boy did not notice. 

A large Fanalis male, with medium length hair, and a height that towered a head above Ayaan-- what was his name again? Ayaan didn't recall, and didn't want to.

Only considering him for a brief moment, Ayaan returned his gaze to the darkness.

"It matters to you, how?"

Ayaan was not alright-- _but why did it matter if he was alright?_

"Because we're both Fanalis," Yaqut responded easily, "the older nurture the younger, wherever and whenever. It's the code of honour, where I come from."

Ayaan growled under his breath. Honour--  _that's a word synonymous to pride, wasn't it?_

 **The older nurture the younger,**  that was natural for his village too.

"I'm not hurting," Ayaan decided his response, "I can't be."

Yaqut reconsidered himself, feeling a pain well inside him from those words Ayaan spoke. Perhaps it broke his heart a little-- he wasn't holding up much better-- but he had held onto himself by constantly convincing himself that his sister needed him to be intact. He held onto the fact that he was slightly older-- and used it to keep himself from breaking apart.

Was Ayaan alone this whole time?

It must've been hard on him-- but what could Yaqut do?

Ayaan turned to Yaqut-- and realized that his tears had escaped him again.

Biting his lip, Ayaan's head held down. He clutched at his chest, his other hand at his stomach-- it boiled uncomfortably, but Ayaan only cried a little harder at the thought. His tears poured and the emotions he didn't want to show spilled out again.

Yaqut was the first Fanalis to ever talk to Ayaan properly.

Why did that fact alone make Ayaan so, so, grateful? Why did Ayaan feel so emotional just knowing someone would talk to him, would still try to understand him?

It won't be for long, he knew. Soon, the trip would end and Yaqut and Razol would leave. Ayaan would be alone again-- with his Master that scared him, hurt him emotionally, and did things.

"Someone once told me that he'd make a name for himself," Ayaan spoke up to Yaqut-- sympathetically, Ayaan seemed only to be vomitting his emotions for no real reason-- "in Reim, he told me he'd make a place for us Fanalis. A place we can all be together and ourselves; a place we won't be seen as monsters, but heroes."  

It was a place they could be safe with themselves, where they would protect each other and stand by each other. Where nothing could stand against them and nothing could oppress them. A place all of them could be strong-- and Ayaan loved the idea of it.

"Hey, do you think he'll still try and do it, even now?"

Much more than a question, it was a heartfelt craving.

Yaqut stepped forward, wrapping the boy in one wide hug that made their shackles calnk together noisily and heave in added weight. Yaqut held the embrace briefly before parting, fearing the boy would be uncomfortable at the sudden contact.

"If such a place could ever exist," Yaqut promised, "I'll want to be there too."

 


	11. cold, he no longer cries.

People always said that you should eat while you could, because that's the survival of the fittest. Beggars never wasted food; only the rich had the liberty of such sin.

"Stay away from him," audible whispers from someone-- a slave, but an older adult-- warned a young child, "he's the Master's personal slave."

"He never eats, and when he does, he doesn't finish," someone supplied, "or he gives it to someone else."

"I've heard the Fanalis are a proud race. Maybe he just doesn't want to eat such inferior food," another commented in a snarky tone.

Ayaan may have impaired hearing, but those words didn't escape his perception.

He simply acknowledged them as the truth-- acknowledged it as something, an issue, that could not be helped. In comparison to the arduous conditions, little verbal opinions were easy to bear.

Of course at first, he felt injustice. He hated how he was forced to bear such things, he despised how these people lacked a heart.

But now, everything just was. 

Ayaan didn't understand why the Fanalis were supposed to have this pride. They just did-- and that was what he was taught to have. But he knew deep inside-- did pride really matter this much? Why did the others still value their pride after having fallen this far? 

Ayaan honestly didn't care much for pride-- or perhaps, he was just consciously denying something he unconsciously still upheld.

"You," the voice was female, cold, and authoritative-- Hala, the Master's personal maid, eyed Ayaan with a gaze of seething animousity as she calmly reported: "the Master asks for you." 

Ayaan hadn't yet taken a bite of his food.

Pushing it toward the boy beside him-- Juman, a boy a little older than him-- and gave him an unspoken message of offering.

Ayaan stood up, and made his way to the Master's room.

He breathed out-- unfeeling.

He sealed his heart and his mind, and hoped his emotions would seal back in too. Those things were unnecessary for a slave like him, so he concluded he didn't need them at all.

He was alright like this.

He had to be.

ー

It had been two months since Ayaan's Master's carriage separated from Yaqut and Razol. They were in the capital of Reim, and Ayaan's Master has taken an interest in the gambling flourish of the city.

Ayaan felt an interest in him at the sight of the town-- buildings were tall and made of stone, people had golden hair and there were many, many people crowding around in trade and harmony. 

It wasn't as if Ayaan had never seen a huge crowd before-- he had never been a part of it. This was a much bigger crowd than anything else he had ever experienced, and the face that so many people of different hair colours melded together like it was normal-- that was a new experience for him.

Ayaan felt that there was something more to this little bubble of excitement he felt in his heart--  _gold hair, tall stone buildings_ \-- but he couldn't really recall what made him so interested in this scenery. 

Peace was quickly taken away from him as he found himself within a majestic arena, behind the bars that led to the grand stage before a humongous crowd.

"You just have to fight," his fellow slave, a more experienced warrior urged him, "they'll put you before a beast of some sort. You just have to kill it and come back, that's all."

Ayaan nodded, understanding.

Ayaan lifted the axe in his arms, tightening his grip on the hilt. His palms wrapped with white bandages to increase friction for his hold, he swallowed almost nervously.

This was a show of some sort, he managed to gather. His Master only smiled so happily when there was money involved. But everyone that he knew went in there didn't come out without wounds. 

Someone whispered in the back,  _"it's a Fanalis! this is gonna be great,"_  hushed excitement that pretended Ayaan couldn't hear them.

Ayaan knew that eyes were on him-- it was a little different from his usual bodyguard duties, where he would fight while his Masters trot on, not batting him and eyelash and expecting him to catch up immediately.

Now, Ayaan's fighting would have to make its mark in show.

But Ayaan wasn't strong-- he wasn't strong, they'd be disappointed. 

But what happens if he loses? HIs head turns to the deep, deep scars on the backs of other gladiators-- some had fresh gashes, new scratches--

_if Ayaan lost this fight, would he die?_

Ayaan clenched his fist,  _no_ , he knew,  _I won't die_.  **He can't die**.

_Why?_

Ayaan's never succeeded in dying before. Why would he succeed this time? What were the odds? Surely, they were quite close to zero.

That's right-- Ayaan was  **immortal**.

The grills of rusted metal bars rolled upward, opening the way to the world Ayaan would now live in.

Taking a step into the light that only scorched him by the skin, Ayaan opened his eyes to take in the rambunctious, roaring crowd around him. He wrapped his hands around the handle of the two axes in his hands-- and wondered, if only for a moment, he could let go of these and fly away beyond those tall, tall walls of the Colosseum-- to the freedom he could never have.

He sighed-- and his vision sharpened in the face of the southern creature before him.

A large, gorilla-like creature, ten times his size-- a roaring, beastly being that had hands larger than Ayaan's face, and arms longer than Ayaan's height. Each step he took made the ground shudder and shatter in shizzles-- his shriek was an ear-piercing high-pitched tone that threatened to strike eardrums bare.

It was nothing new, Ayaan realized.

He'd fought beasts in his guard duties too-- just, perhaps, smaller. This monster was much larger than anything else Ayaan had ever fought-- but now, Ayaan had weapons.

He'd picked it out himself-- a unique axe, with a long handle and a smaller blade-- this was a Francesca, a throwing axe. He'd seen his father use the same weapon before, so perhaps the familiarity of the weapon roused his instincts.

There was no call to begin. The fight started instantly.

With a thunderous roar, the beast lunged forward with a speed unbecoming of its size. It leaped from the entrance of his cage to the center of the arena in two moments--

but Ayaan was ready for it.

Leaping once forward in time with the beast, he swung his axes from the right-- with the momentum, he sliced through a large gash across the side of the beast's legs.

The Francesca axes were too shallow a blade for such a thick beast.

He took two steps to stable himself, then swung back around all the way, running his blade through the monster's thigh another time.

The crowd exploded into excited, cacophonous vivacity as they jested the unexpected turn of events. A large animal and a small child-- now, that was an interesting sight to behold.

Blades running through flesh felt much worse than punching or kicking, Ayaan knew-- but that made the battle feel so much less human. It wasn't the cold-blooded act of defense he usually did-- this was a one-sided murder show made to amuse the crowd.

No-- this was an unsung battle for survival.

A fight to the death between he and the beast.

Ayaan leaped up. His axe was heavy for his figure, but it was nothing to a Fanalis. His shoulders brought the blade down on the beast, swerving for a slice on the left, and swinging to split the skin to the right.

Dodging strikes in mid air was the most of his problems.

To the beast, perhaps Ayaan was as annoying as a fly. Flying around irritatingly, hard to hit, and when you think you've gotten it-- they'd actually slipped through a crevice in the air pressure and used the momentum to narrowly avoid impact.

It wasn't too long of a fight.

The axe slipped from Ayaan's hand mid-swing, hurling itself a good trajectory right into the beast's eyes. The beast howled in agony, that wound that worst he had sustained aside from drastic blood loss.

Taking the moment, Ayaan flipped upward, his foot coming down on the axe, embedding it further into the eye.

Pulling the hatchet from the socket, Ayaan brought both axes down at the beast's skull.

the axes shattered on impact, the weapons not built for such forceful use-- but the beast screeched in tremendous pain-- and finally, finally lost its balance, falling to the ground.

Ayaan landed on the ground, watching the beast contort in its pitiful form, bleary in consciousness and on the verge of death.

**"Kill it!   Kill it!   Kill it!"**

The crowd was a ringing in the back of his mind; a spell cast to hypnotize him; a command Ayaan instinctively knew was a request that had no reason to be refused.

Ayaan stepped forward-- raised a clenched hand-- 

 _is this alright?_   something in him seemed to whimper, an emotion he no longer really understood well.  _is this really alright?_

 _are you alright?_  it asked.

Ayaan brought his fist down and through the ape's brittle skull, bursting open with blood and grey matter as his fingers squished into something slimy and bright red.

 _Am I supposed to not be alright?_   he wondered.

The monster wasn't moving anymore.

Ayaan was covered fully in messy splotches of this red-- red, the colour of death; red, the colour of murder; and red, the colour of the Fanalis.

_Why wouldn't I be alright?_

 


	12. scars that mar him forever.

Ayaan was a challenger to brave the beasts of the Colosseum. 

Over the month he stayed, he became considered one of the monsters of the Colosseum. He fought prisoners and beasts, never losing. 

The crowd came like moth to flame, and Ayaan was adored by the rabid watchers that indulged in his struggles. His master was very much pleased by the gain, and Ayaan wasn't let out of there anytime soon.

The man stitched the gash in his arm. The work was done quick and careful, not making any mistakes, but it wasn't the prettiest healing. 

The doctors in the Colosseum really only did the bare minimum they could, after all. With plenty of wounded each day, they couldn't exactly keep up the best level of medication they could for each and other gladiator that was hurt in battle.

Medicine was provided well for each fighter, even slaves-- but Ayaan was not.

Ayaan bit on a rag, not making a sound. Each gash took longer than the one before to close up-- and Ayaan could only curse himself for it.

Anaesthesia and disinfectant did not work on him. 

Experimentally, a doctor had applied it just once-- Ayaan vividly remembered the ripping agony as his wounds tore itself apart, gushing out and nearly bleeding him out.

In further conversations between his Master and the Colosseum medic, they came to a theory that Ayaan's body rejected chemical poison in every form. Just as his stomach refused to digest, his blood acted animatedly in self defense towards anything that wasn't supposed to belong in his body-- unfortunately, medicine came under that category.

He could only hope to bind his wounds together and hope they heal properly. It was much better than wasting some valuable medicine for the others.

His wounds would heal, but the crooked stitches would remain just a little longer. They bound around both his arms, swirled around a leg, ran in slices around his abdomen, and decorated his back almost beautifully. One ran under his eye.

 _It made him look like a zombie_ , his brain came to realize. 

It amused him slightly.

  ー  

He curled up in the corner of the Colosseum, asleep and undisturbed.

His Master was in the casino to gamble, so Ayaan was left in the arena to await his next match. Ayaan made the most of his time and slept it away. 

He would stay the day in the Colosseum, having about three matches each day-- then when the sun set, his Master would take him home. He would guard his Master as they walked through the rest of the way-- and Ayaan would stay at Master's bedroom door throughout the night, on guard. It was his routine and he was used to it by now.

When his battle would come, someone would rouse him. 

  ー  

Another large stitch down his back had been removed-- Master ran his hand across it gently, tracing the light white scar that spilled in a jagged pattern-- another stitch intersected with it at the end, yet to be removed.

"What ugly scars," his words were cold and unemotional, "they are wounds of battle."

 _They are symbols of weakness in battle_ , Ayaan added only to himself. He did not move, did not respond, did not shiver and did not tremble. He was not allowed to.

A hand ran down his left arm, tracing the black threads of the stitch that pulled his arm into one-- Ayaan closed his eyes, almost expectant of something.

"When they heal, would you prefer I have them covered?" Master asked-- a rhetorical inquiry that prompted an answer but did not expect one.

At his master's command, Ayaan turned to face him.

His hair draped down his shoulder, spilling over his eyes, his chest, and heavily covered the remains of what used to be his left ear.

His eyes were empty and hollow-- his face always seemed tired.

His lips were thinned in a straight, pencilled line-- 

"I'll mark you," Master promised, his hands crawling to Ayaan's neck, around the collar that tamed him-- drawling to his wrists, to the chains that bound his slave--  snaking to his ankles, the chains that weighed him down from freedom.

"These scars are beautiful," he whispered over and over, words spilling out repeatedly as he pulled his arms across to see each and every one, inspecting for new ones-- "So beautiful--"

"I won't let anyone else see them."

To hide scars, people often decide to make more. Burning patterns onto skin decoratively, calling it a form of art and style and fashion, perhaps-- but to Ayaan, it was nothing more than the searing pain he so, so hated to feel.

It was just more scars onto old ones, pretending they never existed by making his skin gleam red with ink that can never, ever be erased. 

Scars would fade, but tattoos stayed.

He belonged to his Master, and that would never be changed.

  ー  

Ayaan began to hear rumours of a Fanalis within the Colosseum. 

Not a slave-- a game changer for the world. Someone that sported such red, fiery hair, yet was to be treated like royalty. 

As he hear the passers by gossip to each other, Ayaan gathered the news. 

Ayaan was very, very interested.

Someone-- a Fanalis-- that made a name for himself in this Colosseum, just like Ayaan, but at the same time so different from Ayaan. A Fanalis halfbreed with mixed blood, someone of Reim's royalty origin...

"He's called Muu, I think. Muu Alexius," the man told his friend, "he's still a kid, but he's a tough match even among the Knights!"

"Well, he's a Fanalis, after all!" his friend laughed, "I've heard from one of my pals in there. He's a great kid, apparently. I'd love to see him fight one day!"

Ayaan leaned against the wall, curiously listening in.

 _Muu Alexius,_  he repeated in his head. 

Something rang in him--a bell, perhaps? It told him so deeply, a reverberating noise that hummed in him so, so meaningfully-- reminding him it was important.

But it didn't tell him why.

When he began to consider, he began to reminisce. Why would that name he didn't remember mean something to him at all? He began to think back. To remember.

To uproot those memories he had unconsciously sealed away in himself to cope with the reality, to cope with the harsh, painful current situation he so, so wanted to  _escape_  from.

When was it?

Even his oldest recall spoke of Master. Was it before he met Master? Before-- yes, he was a carriage guard even before Master. Those day, he just guarded, was pulled around, dragged about, punished for any mistakes, reprimanded for any delay-- 

The sharp shuffling of chains prickled his eardrums.

 _ **No,**_  he swallowed, he was a construction slave before then. Working in rabid, arduous conditions, wet and muddy and cold and damp. Where an infected wound meant that body part had to be removed. Where a sprained ankle was just a pitiful excuse.

Where sleep was not a luxury and food was only thrown up wastefully.

His eyes went wide, his hands reached up to his ears-- the bells rang, chimed, screamed like sirens just threatening to tear his head apart over and over and over and  _over_

He stopped.

_How did he lose his ear again?_

Screaming, he remembered, someone was screaming. Crying, wailing sobbing, begging, pleading, unforgivingly, on his knees, praying.

Calling for a help against this suffering.  _Why?_

The boy had cried so much. Vomiting, throwing up everything from white to green to red; sobbing incoherently--  _who was that?_

A knife was pressed into his hand, and he was shoved before a beast.

Who was the one that screamed and wailed as he threw his hands forward, mad, insane, fervent and bigot as he killed for what was his very first time?

He craved for an intervention, a saviour; and cried for just anything to take him away from here, even death would have been fine. 

**It was him.**

Why? Why?  _Why?_

His chains hit each other in one resounding clank.

He had called for them. For those. For the ones he loved, hoping, dreaming they would come one day, just wishing that one day time would turn back and he would be smiling with them again like they always did, in their village...

**The village.**

Ayaan felt the pain in his chest erupt-- like a gushing volcano prodded by a stick, it just threw. 

He was heaving up blood that burned bright red. Expelling the liquid of life from the core of his being, and he couldn't stop sobbing. 

The attack did not last long, but the damage was done. His limbs were weak, and he could not fight today. He was lifted to the infirmary, where he lay unconscious for the day.

He didn't want to remember, he realized.

He was better off not remembering. He had sealed it inside himself, locked it in the depths of himself that he would only wish would go away forever, so he would never have to recall it again.

Who were those people he once loved? 

He couldn't even recall their faces. He couldn't even make himself produce a syllable of their names. He was scared he would forget them again.

But even more so than their faces, he was so, so scared of those other memories flowing back into his head. He was terrified of the pain that burst in his chest each time he wanted to, he hated pain so, so much.

He sealed his emotions, his heart, so he wouldn't feel.

He stayed stoic to physical agony so he could fool himself into thinking he was not in pain.

Now, he had to seal his memories and forget the ones he loved in the past-- for the sake of being able to face the ones he hated in the future.

 

Like the marks that now decorated his skin forever, he can never turn back.

 


	13. the beast of the colosseum.

Something about today's opponent felt different for Ayaan. The competitors out back were restless, and the crowd was erratic, so, so animated.

 

Ayaan fought gladiators yesterday-- today was supposed to be one too.

 

When he was put before the doors again, waiting for the grills to rise in its creaky, rusty grinds-- Ayaan felt nothing. He didn't feel anything. He didn't know what was feeling.

 

The cheers that roared today were a little louder than usual. Clutching his axes in his hands, he only trotted out, eyes lifted, head slumped. It wasn't going to be different.

 

He was a beast of the Colosseum.

 

And today, the gladiators will try to slay him.

 

"Ayaan...?"

 

Somehow, Ayaan felt like he hadn't been called that in a long, long time. 

 

Ayaan's hands were small and his palms barely wrapped a round of the axe's hilt. His axe was a third of his height, and inevitably dragged across the floor when he travelled.

 

Ayaan's never thought of himself as small.

 

He comes two meters before his opponent. An adult, not particularly tall-- but older, so he stood much higher. Ayaan was a child, still young, in comparison.

 

His hair gleamed a cardinal shade of copper, his eyes burning rubies that accentuated the golden gleam of his toga. He wore no fancy armor-- he was just a gladiator, after all. His sword was the blunt blade every gladiator seemed to prefer.

 

But his back was pulled back with the ambience of pride, his gaze roared with the embers of royalty in name and in blood. Confidence was something he exuded by pure survival instinct alone-- and Ayaan knew by gut alone that this man was dangerous.

 

"Ayaan," the man choked out, "you're Ayaan... right?"

 

Ayaan pulled the bandages on his wrists a little tighter, spreading it loosely over the tattoos-- bright red, burned in-- on his forearm. His master didn't like it when the tattoos were ruined too badly, but that didn't mean he liked it when they were hidden from view.

 

From his left brow to the balls of his ankles, red that his master loved decorated him. A mark of property that couldn't be hidden, couldn't be broken easily. It marked him as a possession, similar to livestock-- something perhaps a little less than human.

 

His hair was kept at the length of his middle back, but wasn't permitted any shorter.

 

He fought every day, but wasn't permitted any losses.

 

"The battle," the jury declares, "Begins!"

 

A burn washing over his eyes, Ayaan struck first.

 

The faster he killed his opponent, the sooner it all came to an end-- this much, he knew. His first strike was heavy, but one sword shielded against.

 

"Ayaan!" the man threw a hard strike, throwing Ayaan off of him in pure strength alone. 

 

It was gritting against his ears. Irritating against his mind. Ayaan lost his balance-- and skidded across the ground, barely keeping himself on his feet.

 

Ayaan flipped his blade, steadying himself again. He braced for a chance impact-- but his opponent was not attacking him.

 

"Ayaan, listen to me!" the man didn't take his next stride, he gestured at himself, desperation just flooding across his face in such pained emotions, "it's me! Muu!"

 

His sword was in his hand, but he put it beside him. His mouth was open, yelling nothings into the air, at a volume the crowd couldn't catch a word. Ayaan wasn't interested in his notes, and it was grating his nerves that the crowd became quiet. 

 

Who was this man?

 

Why is he talking to Ayaan in a battle?

 

Battles were supposed to be noisy, quick, and full of roaring despicables. 

 

Ayaan didn't like it at all. This isn't something that usually happens-- this circle called an arena, people came in here to die. 

 

Ayaan didn't know the word-- but he held this place with a sacred significance. People killed and people were killed, survival of the fittest. 

 

Talking and making conversation in this place-- was that what this man was trying to do? No, maybe he was trying to distract Ayaan somehow? It was just annoying.

 

A desecration to an honourable requiem, kind of.

 

Rage fueled across Ayaan's veins-- and a francesca was flung right at the man. It spun faster than a needle, a supersonic blade shooting past Muu's neck. 

 

The redhead only had one blink to realize it was coming-- pure animal instinct that allowed him to dodge it. He was stunned, colour dissolving from his face-- and cold sweat dripping down his chin.

 

Ayaan boiled, marching steps slow and hard toward the man.

 

"This is a battle," Ayaan's voice was foreign to even himself. "if you won't fight," his expression scrunched up-- why? Somehow, words were hard to say now, his eyes prickled with a sort of pain-- he didn't understand at all.

 

Ayaan, without even being aware of it, was on the verge of tears just speaking to this man.

 

"At least make yourself someone interesting to kill," he had to choke out.

 

Ayaan didn't understand why his throat felt hot. Why something boiled over and threatened to escape as a cry. Why his eyes hurt and actually felt soggy and damp and painful to keep open. His stomach churned, but not quite like how it was before he's retch-- 

 

Was this an emotion?

 

He simply closed his eyes-- breathed in-- out-- and opened them again.

 

If he stalled any longer-- if he made the crowd any more bored-- fear spiked in him, a sudden, agonizing nausea spinning into a net inside of him-- the marks on his skin gleamed a scalding reminder-- ah, he was going to get punished for wasting time, wasn't he?

 

It was gone now. The heat that rose in his chest-- dissolved from his heart, it gave way to the cold that wrapped him in a clutch. The shackles on his wrists clanked against the blade of his axe.

 

The weight attached to his ankles tugged and bound him to the ground.

 

He was a beast of the Colosseum, a voice from the gods only rained down on him as another settling reminder.

 

And Ayaan only took it in, not knowing a reason to doubt it.

 

His eyes snapped open-- and his grip on his francesca tightened. He took one step back-- and hurled it forward.

 

This man was making him hurt somewhere physical wounds couldn't bind him down. And Ayaan was afraid of it-- so, so fearful of that paralysing misery in his heart-- that his inclination turned to getting rid of the source.

 

Physical pain was alright;

 

but this torment, internal, mental, emotional, was blood-curdling, heart-wrenching, and just, so, so, scary.

 

This man was making him feel that way, he established in his head, if he got rid of this man, the pain would stop.

 

The hurting would stop.

 

It had to.

 

  ─  

 

Muu was saved, and he could only hate that he was. 

 

It was almost eighteen months now since it's happened.

 

Eighteen months.

 

He'd fallen sick. He remembered, vividly, the stark agony that felt like a searing incineration to his skull-- he remembered Myuron crying, his mother worrying-- and Lo'lo whining.

 

He went to sleep that night, saddened he couldn't go hunting with his friends. He remembered cradling Myuron in his arms, and they fell into slumber.

 

But when Muu woke up, his sister was gone.

 

And the village was in flames.

 

He spent six months in slavery, desperate only to stay with his sister through it all. He would never forget the days his hands were weighed down, his feet were chained down. When he would be shoved around, beaten, abused, hated and spat on for only nothing.

 

He spent six months in heavy labour, before the royalty of Reim salvaged him from the channels of the trade. 

 

The metal was broken from his wrists, and the burden was freed from his shoulders. He was cleaned and dressed and given time to ail for the deterioration he suffered.

 

He was given warmth and clothing and shelter and his sister.

 

It repulsed him how long it took for him to come to his senses. To begin trusting again; to begin living as a human again; to begin to speak and smile and even cry.

 

They were all broken. He and Myuron both- -but they had each other, so they clung to each other, holding on to their pieces, and slowly began to construct for themselves a stronger, sturdier fortitude.

 

What happened to everyone? What became of them?

 

Everything began in Al-'Ula. Spreading like wildfire, scorching like the holocaust, the Fanalis tribe was taken down town after town, place after place, ground after ground, hunter after prey.

 

They figured out better, more efficient ways to take down the Fanalis-- only improving in productivity, they dared call it, with each town-- in a mere two and a half months, they were gone.

 

Eradicated-- and Muu actually fiercely yelled back at Ignatius when he tried to tell the siblings about it. They didn't want to know, they didn't want to believe it.

 

They didn't want to realize it.

 

They fit wrist gauntlets across the scars from his shackles. They picked up the sword they yearned to strive for. 

 

They became the gladiators they promised to endeavor. 

 

Hoping one day, they'll be strong enough to hide the weaknesses of their hearts.

 

─  

 

Muu Alexius made a name for himself in the Colosseum. At the age of thirteen, he was trying to stand up to the ones he called rivals and fellow gladiators.

 

The blood of a Fanalis was not one to underestimate, even if he only had half of it in his veins.

 

Thirteen was an adult's age. People called him a child-- but he would face it all with a smile. 

 

He worked harder than anyone else. He strove stronger than any other.

 

But today-- today, he falters.

 

Today was a key battle-- one that would land him a spot on the pedestal of named gladiators, one that would be vital as his first step toward his eventual Knighthood.

 

Today was important, but today, he couldn't.

 

He entered the Colosseum, facing the opponent he hadn't had the opportunity to see for himself. Not even from the witness stands, he had missed out on this notorious Fanalis beast and his mighty battles. 

 

If he'd seen this child earlier, would he have taken the step to pull out from the fight?

 

Chained with so much, bound with bruises and lacerations and ink into skin-- a slave that was marked so, so much there was not an inch that could ever be hidden. A slave cursed to bear his master's name for eternity.

 

Hair a shade of burgundy not unlike his own, draped across his bare shoulders, unkempt but not clustered. His hair sprayed across his face, but didn't hide the permafrost eyes glazed with only a cold flare.

 

A husk, Muu only thought, he was a shell. He was a broken glass shard, missing so many pieces nothing could put it together again. A doll, a marionette--

 

A beast of the Colosseum.

 

This wasn't the first time Muu's seen a slave. This was the first time he'd seen such a lifeless, Fanalis slave. 

 

Beyond the emptiness he felt he saw it.

 

The cheeks he used to pinch, the arms that used to curl around his neck-- the little figure that used to drape across his lap, and the tiny back that used to lean over his chest.

 

It was Ayaan.

 

Fakhir's brother. The sickly child. Myu's best friend. Lo'lo's weakness. His favourite kid. Uncle Amir's second son. Aunt Fainan's little bundle of joy.

 

Ayaan.

 

Just the sight of him could've brought Muu to his knees, sobbing to his limits. He wanted only to pull the boy into an embrace, whisper to him, that it was okay.

 

To save him. To get him away from the monster that ate through his heart so, so deeply, that left him so indiscriminately scarred.

 

"Ayaan...?" he called, not trusting his heart.

 

The boy failed to respond. Not a gesture, not a brow raised. As if he hadn't heard Muu at all.

 

  "Ayaan," he choked out, "you're Ayaan... right?"  

 

It was Ayaan. It had to be him. It couldn't be anyone but him. The closer he came, the clearer it seemed. Muu failed to believe this wasn't his kid.

 

Ayaan pulled those bandages, substitutes for gloves, across his forearm. 

 

Tattoos were laden across his body, deep and-- covering scars beneath. Muu hitched a breath, how-- how could this have ever-- happened to-- 

 

"The battle," the jury declares, "Begins!"  

 

Muu flinched back into reality.

 

It was like the boy before him came to life. What could've been just a doll erupted into light, leaping forward faster than an ape, striking down with strength greater than a gorilla.

 

Muu's sword flipped forward, the flat of the blade pushing forward against two axes that would've gone straight through his shoulders. He was mildly pushed back-- but this was nothing he couldn't handle.

 

"Ayaan!" he yelled, shoving back toward the child-- spinning his sword, and striking at the hilt, sending the child flying backward.

 

"Ayaan, listen to me!" he raised his voice, eager. "It's me! Muu!"

 

Why wasn't Ayaan responding to him?

 

Could it be, Ayaan didn't recognize him? He didn't think he'd changed much in appearance. Did Ayaan not remember him? That wasn't possible, was it?

 

He's just having trouble, he pleaded to himself, because he's emotionally unstable right now, and--

 

An axe was gyrating in his direction. Reeling in faster than a loose cart wheel, Muu felt the air pressure gust a sonic wave-- then he saw it. Ducking sharply to the side, his hair was sliced by the large, metal axe. 

 

Swinging to the wall, the weapon crashed blade first into the brick rock, sending rock shards shooting and sand crumbling through the gap.

 

He fell to his knees-- muted.

 

Voiceless, speechless, unable to compose.

 

Ayaan had thrown an axe at him with the intent of only murder. That axe wouldn't have taken his head off-- it would've burst through his skull, leaving only the blade's diagonal path in it wake, gouging a hole right through his head.

 

Ayaan...?

 

"This is a battle," the voice was no longer one Muu recognized. But Muu looked up at the child, noting the pain in his features. Eyes were brimming with hurt, with denying pain-- as if he was a child near tears again, Ayaan seemed to him in so much pain.

 

As if he was asking for help. To be saved. Somehow, please.

 

"If you won't fight," the voice was cold, broken, a soldier only weaponized to not have emotions.

 

As if composing himself, Ayaan's eye closed once, coming back as those frigid, glacial lineaments across his face-- with that farce of indifference, Ayaan spoke again.

 

"At least, make yourself something interesting to kill."

 

That was it.

 

Muu bit his lip, fists clenching in simply frustration. Their eyes met, but they didn't see each other. His heart spoke to him, but his heart was already gone.

 

His emotions tore through his brokenness, but there was nothing Muu could do.

 

Ayaan was gone, and Muu was just too late.

 

The boy standing before him-- eight years old and so, so small and endearing-- it was no longer Ayaan. It was no longer the child he loved.

 

This was a beast he was facing, and it was a beast he had to defeat.

 

The boy took a step back, readying his next attack--

 

Muu's hand flew to his sword.

 

His eyes singed with a resolve, and he picked himself up, taking to his feet and holding back the tears he wasn't in the time to shed.

 

"I'm taking you back, Ayaan," he promised, a mutter only spoken to himself, "I'll save you."


	14. and they fall in defeat.

Victory was at the cost of another. 

Between gladiators, it was a mark of honoured victory. 

When Muu fought against monsters, he was compelled to kill them-- that he hated, but didn't often defy. Against gladiators, they struggled until one could no longer stand, or until one was unsuspectingly killed by the blades.

When Muu felt the snap of bone, he dreaded to realize how unworthy he was.

He wasn't fighting a gladiator, he wasn't cutting down a beast. 

He felt like he was subduing a rabid animal, one that fiercely refused to be tamed.

He drove the boy down strike after strike, faltering at how deep the strikes should go. Each moment he hesitated, the boy would roar and bare his fangs at Muu.

But Muu couldn't lose the fight.

Killing Ayaan was the opposite of what he wanted to do-- but the boy just wouldn't calm down. Wouldn't give up. Wouldn't withdraw from the fight.

ー

When the fight ended with Muu's wolf-beaten victory, the crowd erupted in a sort of mad-dog howl, absolutely euphoric at the broken, insane battle they had witnessed.

A battle between beasts fighting for survival. A showdown of two predators for dominance-- for territory, for an assertion of strength-- to determine the alpha.

Muu felt disgusted.

So much, he could've thrown up right there.

Today was supposed to be his prideful ascension. This was the fight that would rise him up a rank? He hated, hated, hated it so much-- if only it would already vanish from his mind, drift off into the lesser banks of his memories so he would never have to recall it ever again.

Pulling the sword out of Ayaan's shoulder, he stood up.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, "just wait. I'll get you out of there, I'll--"

Ayaan grunted, failing to even muster the energy to cringe at his wound. He lay sprawled on the ground, blood grinding red against the brown, eyes shadowed by his bangs.

Ayaan's fist scratched the ground, curling sand into his nails.

Muu didn't know what to do now. Ayaan wasn't hearing him. **Wasn't seeing him.**

The fight was declared over, the cacophony boomed in a distance far from his ears, and Muu was just forced to accept it all. That he had just stabbed Ayaan-- that he had just taken him down for nothing but his own sake.

"Ayaan--" he stepped forward, pushing a hand forward, offering to help the child up.

With only a weak groan, the child disregarded the hand he was given. Crawling to his feet with effort-- a limp in his steps, _was his ankle sprained?_ he held onto his elbow where the shoulder wound was drying, and, staggering backwards, he throttled back to the doors.

Muu's hand stayed frozen where it was--

A grit rising in his throat, Muu turned around and walked back his way. 

He was going to talk with Lady Scheherazade, **now** , and she was going to help him get Ayaan back.

He should've understood by then that things just didn't want to happen his way.

—

"I can't do that," Scheherazade was awfully calm.

"Why...?" Muu was on his feet before he even noticed, "please, Lady Scheherazade, I'll do anything! You saved me and Myron-- please," he choked, emotions failing him, " _please_ save Ayaan too."

Scheherazade's expressions faltered a little-- but she only looked away, woeful.

Ignatius couldn't bear to look up. His chest was up, his back was straight, his arms behind him-- but his eyes were turned to a spot on the ground, unable to meet Muu in the eyes.

Muu looked shattered, the hurt prominent in his eyes.

"Why?" he demanded, only pain keeping him from stepping closer. His fists were clenched, his teeth were chattering. His voice was a little more than a whimper-- and the tears were in his eyes, only waiting for permission to fall.

Scheherazade wasn't a cold-hearted woman. She was warm, she was earthen and maternal. Speaking to Muu now only caused her pain-- because she was helpless.

"You and Myron are of royal blood," Scheherazade kept her voice toneless, holding back the empathy, hoping her own sadness would not permeate her voice. She had to do this. She couldn't give in to her heart now-- "but Ayaan is not."

"Please, Lady Scheherazade!" Muu was at her lap now, nearly begging, pleading, the pain overflowing-- "I'll do anything. I'll start over as a gladiator again-- I don't even need my royal name, please, help Ayaan. Please."

Ignatius closed his eyes-- holding himself back.

Scheherazade closed her fist on her staff-- and looked forlornly at the red-haired gladiator.

"I'm really sorry," her voice was dismal, torn-- "but I cannot."

Saving Muu and Myron was only luck on their part. They had the sum, they had the time, they had the connections and the blood to remove themselves from the trade.

However, Ayaan was different. 

To take a slave out of the market, one must own it, then set it free. That was how the world worked, and that was how Muu and Myron were liberated.

To save Ayaan, Scheherazade would first have to convince the man to sell Ayaan to her.

Scheherazade would do anything to fulfill Muu's wish. He never, ever asked for anything. He was a selfless, honourable knight-- this was the first request he had ever asked of her.

But she had seen Ayaan.

And it was blatant, _evident_ , that Ayaan was marked as _eternal_ property. Money wouldn't buy him out-- and the empire did not exactly have billions of gold to spare.

She could not force the man to give her Ayaan. That would be a sully to her role as Queen-- she did not want to become a ruler that snatched away her citizen's _possessions_. That would cause riots, and perhaps spark the downfall of the empire if she wasn't careful.

 _No_ , that wouldn't be possible. That man was a traveller, not a citizen. Scheherazade had no control over anything he did. That man would only leave, and never return.

There was nothing she could do about it, and it hurt her to tell Muu this.

"But-- Ayaan's already--" Muu broke down, "Ayaan's already... He doesn't remember me-- please, if we don't save him now... he'll be too far gone."

Scheherazade's hand clenched over her armrest-- but she no longer had words to give the boy.

And somehow, the lack of response was the most painful one for Muu.

He fell to his knees, _sobbing_.

Sobbing for how weak, how worthless, how spineless and how utterly incompetent he was. How shallow and naive he acted, how young and oblivious and just how _unworthy_ he truly was. How much he didn't deserve, how feeble his existence was.

And, he realized again-- just how much he hated, hated, **hated** himself.

He was going to let Ayaan slip out of his grasp. From the edge of his fingers, so close and so far, so distant yet so near-- he was going to lose someone he loved, even though he came so close to getting it back.

Even though he knew Ayaan needed him now.

Maybe vaguely, he recalled the boy in their childhood. So pure and adorable, sickly yet earnest-- it was all gone now.

Muu was vexed to realized just how much things have **_changed_ **. 

He had deceived himself, pretending the little period of slavery was nothing and could be overcome with time. But the fact was that it had more impact on just himself.

It destroyed a race. Destroyed thousands of lives. Destroyed an ecosystem. Destroyed just about every person he once knew. Destroyed his heart.

It destroyed the world. His world.

The only thing that made it hurt more was the realization that this was just a path in destiny. A predetermined course of fate decided by the gods-- a little sacrifice that was only happening for what was considered the greater good.

Muu didn't _know_ anymore.

—

Myron had missed the match for training, but she was sure her brother had won. He never lost, after all. And she was going to congratulate him for his ascension to knighthood.

She trailed down the hallways, gold wrist gauntlets shining at her wrists, wearing a tunic, and donning light jewellery that called her a noble gladiator.

"It is _unfortunate_ ," a voice seethed, sickeningly sweet, "but it's alright. You did not _die_."

Myron paused in her steps, stopping before a doorway.

She didn't look in, but she knew the tone-- it was the voice of a _master_ talking to a _slave_.

A voice that held no relief for someone being _alive_ \-- but relief that money spent on a slave was not _wasted_ by death _._

She froze, her body remembering an excruciating scar in her heart. She couldn't stop herself from trembling, and a hand went to her chest, clenching over her clothes to remind herself _no, no_ , she wasn't a slave, _not anymore_.

"We will set off to the Dark Continent, then," the voice decided, "I'm rather in the mood for another season in the hunting trade."

The man stepped out, turning right out of the doorway.

He paused, nearly bumping into Myron, "oh, my," he stepped back-- _he glanced over the red hair, then noticed the jewellery_ \-- "my apologies, I didn't see you there."

Myron stopped trembling-- but that was only because she was petrified. It took all she had to turn her gaze from the man's eyes, a habit from slavery-- but she couldn't form any words.

Only a shaky step back was managed-- she took a breath and held it, nervous.

The man considered Myron for a moment-- then stepped away, continuing to make his way down and out of the Colosseum.

Then, Myron saw it. Saw _him_.

Trailing a few paces behind the man, bringing with him the heavy shuffling of chains on his feet and dragging with him eternally bound shackles on his wrists-- was a **_Fanalis_ **.

With burgundy hair-- a shade Myron's never known better-- and holding those eyes, those eyes that didn't belong on a live person-- the boy was almost cadaverous, more muscle on him than flesh.

 _Young_ , her age, her height, her **weakness**.

Carved across his body, tainting each square inch of his skin, were swirled patterns that gleamed an ugly wine red that didn't suit it. Scars, healing scars hastily stitched together, were a flaming rust red, _an infection? Perhaps, but maybe not,_ because he didn't have that infected, rotting stench on him.

Myron caught something further, though.

Something that was a smell of _sick_.

A very _familiar_ smell of sick.

Even though her time as a slave, this was one smell she couldn't mistake. Her nose was never a doubted one, after all-- even Muu failed to fathom it sometimes.

She doubted it only a second. Her eyes landed on him-- their eyes not meeting, so she looked away-- then, it hit her, and she was reaching out for him before she could hesitate again.

"Ayaan!" the word broke past her locked throat, her hand pushing the boy's shoulder to grasp it, then tugging him back toward her.

And to her utmost surprise, the boy responded. A sharp anchor to the ground kept him balanced-- and his other foot raised high, swiping across and sending Myuron crashing into the wall with shattering impact.

Only instinct-- and a quickly raise of her arms, holding a sacrificial guard at her right side-- saved her from being knocked out. She found herself blown into the wall, trapped in-- 

Her arm was broken, and she was definitely not standing. Her ears were ringing, but quickly quelled. Pain roared in her arm, but she's had worse.

"My apologies," the man-- _the master_ \-- now sang, a little too delighted, "my slave is rather short-tempered, so it would help if you were to not touch him as you please. After all, he is _my_ property."

Myron was confused.

"Ayaan--" she spoke up, "it's--" maybe it was her hairstyle. Maybe it was because she was most recently cleaned in Reim, so she probably didn't smell like how she was before-- "it's me, Myu. Myron."

_This was Ayaan, right?_

"You remember me, right?" she was already near tears, arm slowly creeping down to her side, hurting in each twitch of her finger, "we were--"

The master rolled his eyes.

"We are in a rush," he groaned, "so we will take our leave now."

Without considering a second of what Myron said-- _because, why did that matter now? He bought Ayaan, and it was law that Ayaan was his now. And Ayaan didn't look like he wanted to stay and talk, not that he would have a choice to-_ - 

He turned, and walked away-- leading Ayaan with him.

Wordlessly, they were going away.

 

**_"I've got an idea, Ayaan! If you're weak, I'll protect you! Because I'm stronger!"_ **

 

Myron crawled out, and staggered to her feet. Her head lolled painfully to each side with each step she took, but she only struggled harder.

"Wait, Ayaan!" she called, but the boy didn't respond. Even when her voice echoed across the corridors, bounced over the walls-- "wait!"

 

**_"I'll keep you safe until you're strong enough!"_ **

 

"How irritating," she faintly heard the master groan, "could someone deal with her? She seems deranged at the moment."

 _No_ , she thought-- _Ayaan was a slave, like she was._

She had to save him. He looked terrible. Horrible. _Who did that to him?_ She wanted to punch the guy in the face nearly a thousand times, and she was sure that wouldn't even be enough.

He was so close. 

 

**_"I've decided that I'm protecting you, no matter what you say! And if you don't like that, get strong enough to beat me in a fight!"_ **

 

She was the one that said that. She was the one that told him that. She was the one that decided that, that vowed that, that pridefully declared that. 

She was the one that haughtily announced that, for the boy who couldn't take care of himself.

She wanted to protect him, to stand by him, to always be by his side. To ease the pain of the scar he was born with, so he wouldn't get new ones. But here, he was laden with them-- because she was away from him.

 _Ayaan really couldn't take care of himself alone_ , she believed, _he needs me_. 

But the truth was _I need him_.

And the reality behind that was _I love him_.

 

**_"Promise me!"_ **

 

_She promised._

 

Her sight was blurring, her movements were slowing. The guards were standing in her way, and she didn't have the strength to overcome it.

She felt herself pushed down, held back. She felt herself wrestling, flailing, desperately screaming-- for the one boy that was slowly, slowly, walking further from him.

For that boy that wasn't turning around, wasn't looking back to her.

For the friend she couldn't get back anymore.

For the one she's lost forever.

 

  —  

 

They could only grasp it briefly, holding the agonizing understanding in their heart, and wait for their tears to run out. They could only cry their hearts out, wail and sob their pain away, and hope, hope, _hope_ , **_hope_ **, that this was all just one long, long nightmare.

This wasn't their first despair.

 

But this was their first **defeat**.

 

This was the pivot of their lives, one perhaps as strong as the first one that was slavery. This was the moment they realized just truly how vulnerable they were, and how pathetic they were in the face of the world.

They needed **power** if they didn't want to lose. They needed **strength** to recover what they'd lost. They needed **influence** if they wanted to reclaim their place in the world.

But to get everything, they just needed **blood**. The blood of royalty that swam in their veins and flowed through their hearts.

 

They were going to make the Fanalis Corps a reality.


	15. her name is Anise.

Dripping in the moonlight, Ayaan found himself wondering why water was translucent.

In the dim gray light, the pond was a lake of quicksilver that blanketed thickly around him, wrapping around him coldly, vainly embracing him--

Even this felt comforting, because warm hugs were something he grew to despise.

He only loved the inanimate things, things that were sure to not hurt him.

The moon that rose above the world was bright and full, unfathomably beautiful-- yet, full of scars and caverns that could only be ugly up close.

Maybe that was how his Master saw him. That's why his Master called him beautiful, maybe.

So he decided he hated the moon, too.

Balbadd, his Master called this country, a land of trade and pleasure and wine. His Master decided he'd liked it, and so here they stayed. They'd gone out to the wastelands to hunt for a season, and came back here. 

They haven't gone to Reim for a while now. Has it been months? Years?

"Who's there?!"

He turned, the woman's voice only filled with fear.

He dunked his body down into the waters, fearing the exposure of his marks-- and fearing misunderstandings of him running away.

She was a beautiful lady, washing herself in the waters just like Ayaan was-- somehow, the sight of her made Ayaan so, so surprised.

Because something in him was telling him, although he had never met her before, he knew who she was. He knew she was  _ important _ .

With long, black hair, so elegant and cared for, with a body, scarred yet voluptuous, a form men would crave for--

"A child?" she asked, bewildered, "a... a slave...."

She didn't fear him. Instead, it was a sense of mutual understanding that overwhelmed her.

In the moonlit waters, he could catch sight of scars at her waist-- scars similar to the ones Ayaan himself had.

So she was a harlot.

Ayaan's hair was long to his own waist, drenched and pooled across his eyes, red and rubbed raw with exhaustion-- His fingers were stained with dirt, overruns with scars so ugly, yet the magic in his tattoos never let the scars destroy the emblems.

"Are you from the slums too? Or..."

Did she think he had escaped from his Master?

He shrank back, eyeing her warily. It would be bad if he got too involved and his Master found out. It would soon be sunrise, after all...

"Don't be afraid!" she was frantic, spreading her arms to show she meant no harm-- no weapons, well, she was bare, after all, "I just wanted to talk, I'm sorry."

He calmed himself; He didn't want her to be loud.

He stood up, and watched her. If she wanted to talk, maybe he would listen and leave when she was done--

"My name is Anise, and I live in the slums," she smiled at him, glad for the rather not-hostile response from the boy, "if you have nowhere to go... you could come with me."

Ayaan found himself sparked with curiosity.

Come... _ to go with her? _

Why?

The shackles were still on his wrists, but the chains were removed until morning. That didn't at all mean he could go.

_ He could go? _

Oh, he realized-- Master won't know if I run away now. Master trusts me enough to let me be free to bathe. 

If I run now,  _ I betray his trust. _

But I'll be free.

Ayaan shook his head, reminding himself just where he was now. He saw her face fall in disappointment, but didn't falter.

He put his hands on his face, wrapped his arms around himself in self-consolation, and turned around, lifting his hair to just show her the extent of the marks-- marks of possession-- on him.

He didn't,  _ couldn't _ , belong anywhere anymore.

Nowhere except here, forever.

And somehow, she understood. She understood, and nodded to give up.

But Ayaan could see in brokenness in her eyes, the pain in her movements as she choked back a sob in compassion for the boy.

"You're still so young," she sounded devastated, "if only I had the power to save you..." 

Ayaan didn't know anymore how to speak, so he regarded her with what he didn't really think was gratitude.

She herself was in such a state,  _ yet she still yearned to save others? _

_ Why are you a harlot, if you're so kind and honest? _

_ No _ , Ayaan realized that was insensitive to ask.  _ Why was he a slave? He didn't want to remember. _

"You remind me of my son," Anise giggled, rather amused, "quieter than most, always holding something back-- serious, but not without childlike innocence-- just like my Kassim."

Something struck Ayaan.

Something inside him desperately, desperately called out, yelling, whining, chanting, repeating--  _ there it is, there it is _ . There it is, something I know,  _ I know, I know _ .

"I say hes mine, but he's not, how do you say," she fumbled bashfully, "I took in two of the children in the slums the other day-- so I'm working to raise them. Three of them, including my own."

_ Alibaba _ , the name rang in him. _ It's Alibaba. _

_ Who was that? _ He didn't know. But something in him told him he knew it. How? It didn't explain. It just  _ was _ , and explanations never came easily for Ayaan.

"If I could bring them up until at least, they became teenagers," Anise held her hand to her chest, "then I think I could go peacefully."

Something wiled Ayaan to step forward, and h was moving before he urged himself to pull back. He wrapped his hands around the woman's, and placed his forehead right there in the crook of his fingers.

Maybe it was a loving greeting. A bow of respect-- a kiss of compassion, or a prayer for departure. Ayaan didn't know, he just felt like doing it.

But with a gentle laughter, Anise thanked the expression.

"One day," Anise prayed with him, "you will definitely be free."

_ Free _ , that term sounded strange to Ayaan.

"And I'll protect you!" she promised, "so you don't have to be afraid of these anymore," she took his hands in hers, trailing across the tattoos that scaled the back of his palm.

_ Afraid _ , that he was.

"Even if I can't-- I sure my Alibaba can help you!" she giggled, "he's a prince! He's my little prince."

That confused Ayaan.  _ A prince, in the slums? Was that just figurative language? _

"That's right--" Anise realized something, "what's your name?"

So he stopped.

He stopped, and faltered-- because he just didn't know. He didn't know how to answer that-- because he just didn't know. Not anymore, he didn't understand it anymore.

It wasn't anything important, after all.

So Anise rubbed her hands on his comfortingly, telling him it was alright.

"It's alright," she whispered to him, "destiny has something in store for everyone. Destiny has a way to redeem very pain, and bring about the future greater than we can all imagine."

_ Destiny? _

"I'm sure, even now--" she told him, "you're destined for something so much greater. You just have to be patient and persevere."

_ Fate _ , Ayaan remembered.

_ Was it something he hated? _

Why did Anise seem to adore the idea of it?

Even in such a devastating situation, she could have something to smile about, to thank for, to hope for-- _ it was strange, wasn't it? _

Anise was a bright and beautiful woman.  _ Motherly _ , Ayaan found the word-- dear and loving.

_ Was this what having a mother felt like? _

It came to him that maybe he's had a mother before.

  
  


_ I wonder what her name was. _


	16. and this man named Khrue.

The sky was blue. The clouds drifted eastward, a wide expanse so big and free.

In this world of dungeons and magic, Ayaan wondered if humans could grow wings.

 

"Hurry up!"

 

He turned almost too stoically toward the slave driver. He held a blank expression, a little muddled and confused by the early morning and tiring night duty.

The angry, tall man with dark hair held his whip with a sort of bafflement in his eyes-- "are you listening to me at all?!"

 

He looked so flustered. It seemed he'd been calling Ayaan for a while now, or something... But he didn't tear through skin with his whip-- he held it firm, he raised his voice, he showed authority-- but Ayaan could tell he wasn't intending on using that whip just yet.

Ayaan shook his head slowly.

 

The slave driver, forgoing his whip and tucking it into his belt, reached right for Ayaan's cheeks and stretched them out angrily, "quit staring at the sky!"

 

Ayaan was surprised, and although the pain wasn't much he whined when the man finally let him go. His hands at his now-red cheeks, he pouted.

 

"We need to get all this carried in by noon, so your strength is by far essential!" the man lectured with a sort of stern teacher tone, "we don't have time to waste on your dallying!"

He gestured to the large mountain of cargo by port, including the one Ayaan was holding-- the ship was big even for a merchant ship, 

And there came the whip, striking loudly against the ground.

He snapped right back toward everyone else.

 

"THIS AIN'T A SHOW! GET THOSE BOXES UP THERE!"

 

ー

 

Sitting on the edge of the ship, Ayaan found the sea.

On one wooden piece of land, soaring on deep blue waters. Cold, cooling blue for as far as the eyes can see, peace for as long as the horizon stretched-- the expanse was empty and tranquil.

The shackles still clung to his wrists-- but somehow, just watching the view made everything so much more... breathtaking. It was like he was free, for once.

 

"This your first time seeing the sea?"

There was that dark-haired slave driver again. Holding his keys and leaning over the edge, he sighed, tired.

"All the other slaves are in the basement," he leaned into his palm, eyeing the red-haired boy curiously, "isn't it your first break in a while? Not going?"

 

Being a good quality ship, slave quarters were empty, small, but clean. Everyone had a nice spot on the floor when it was time to rest. 

The journey to Sindria would take a while, and the slaves took shifts for sailing duty. Unless there was an emergency, there was nothing to do. Thus, everyone was allowed to rest.

"You blank out a lot, huh," he grumbled, "if you're good, Master might promote you to my rank, y'know... then life would really get a lot easier on you."

For a slave, Ayaan had a rather merciful master. 

The man had about two dozen slaves in total, and half of them work as servants and aren't mistreated. A handful of those are marked slaves, like Ayaan himself-- they are given a good degree of freedom, Ayaan having undeniably the most-- and one of them, this guy, is the slave driver who although a slave, is in charge of them.

He had marks too, like Ayaan-- one that marked him slave for life. But he didn't have shackles-- you only got this job if you were entirely loyal to Master.

"You don't speak?"

Ayaan eyed him with wonder and curiosity. He was a slave, like himself... yet, he had expressions. He go angry, he got embarrassed-- 

Placing a hand on Ayaan's head, the man ruffled his hair gently with a brotherly smile and a sigh.

"You're weird, you know that, right?" he chuckled, "you're not a single bit scared of me, and even the other slaves hate you. Do you have a name?"

_ Why? _

How was he so joyful?

"Master calls me Khrue," he pointed at himself, "I have no idea what that means, though."

Ayaan turned around so his feet were dangling inside the ship. He didn't speak back, but he was evidently interested in the man somehow-- 

Khrue wasn't too sure, but he had a feeling that this child wanted to hear more. Maybe the child just didn't understand his words... maybe the Fanalis don't speak their language or something? Or maybe the child was mute. Or maybe, he'd forgotten words.

"You've been around since before Master even took me in," Khrue remembered, "maybe Master doesn't make you a slave driver because you don't really have leading qualities..."

Ayaan tilted his head to the side, confused.

"My job's pretty tough, y'know!" he whined, "I have to keep track of all of you, count bills and keep stock, make sure none of you get any weird ideas, and I have to give reports to the Master too. And Master always gives me crazy time limits, he's the real slave driver here."

Ayaan thought that was ironic, but his resigned, childish tone cracked a smile out of the boy.

"There it is!" Khrue was beaming, "that's a smile."

Ayaan stopped short, touching his own face and pulling his cheeks up experimentally. 

He didn't really know what a smile was, but Khrue liked it for some reason...

"You remind me of my younger brother," Khrue sighed, exhausted, "he should be around your age right around now... do you have siblings?"

_ Brother? _

Ayaan felt like he'd heard that phrase before-- was it kind of like Anise, a mother? _ Brother, was Khrue something like one? _

He remembered this feeling-- a soft and fluffy feeling, calm and gentle. Pushy but not forceful... did this mean Ayaan had an older brother too?

Well, not like that mattered at this point.

"Ah, asking about family when we're slaves is tactless, isn't it?" Khrue mumbled to himself. He turned around to lean against the side of the ship, looking up toward the sky.

_ Family... _

Ayaan wondered why family was a concept. People were gathered, separated; so was he, so was Khrue. He didn't think he'd had a family...  _ what even was a family, anyways? _

If family were people Ayaan followed and listened to, his master was that to him now. But out there, somewhere, he used to have another.

_ Did that other one no longer matter anymore, now that he was a slave? _ Was that how a family was, someone that took care of you for a while, then the next person takes over eventually?

That's kinda like his master, wasn't it?

"All humans die one day," Khrue told him. "Everyone we see here, everyone we'll never see again? One day, we'll meet them again in the Afterlife."

His voice was deeper now. Softer-- sadder. 

"Some guy that was here before, he kept telling us how the pain we feel would be redeemed-- that we'll all be happy after this--" he whispered, "but I'm a slave driver, I'm a murderer."

Ayaan turned to him curiously, finding that his smile was gone. A smile-- somehow, Ayaan liked Khrue better when he had it on. Because Khrue's stern, annoyed glare reminded him only of despair. It was an ugly expression, angry and like the slave driver he was really supposed to be.

"Do you know why I do this?" he looked at the boy again, hands clenched over the railing-- "this despicable, disgusting job, even though I can run away right now?"

Ayaan didn't like this satiric, mournful tone he was using.

"I didn't suffer," he told him, "I made other people suffer. I cursed people, I ruined peoples lives-- and here I am, living in a significantly well living. I watch people suffer-- this morning, I whipped a slave that couldn't even walk anymore-- hey,"

Khrue reached up to Ayaan's face. The boy flinched, but didn't resist-- he was taught to never resist-- as Khrue brushed hair away from his destroyed ear, exposing the disfigurement.

Ayaan didn't like it.

"Do you think someone like me deserves to die and go to a happy afterlife?" Khrue asked. His smile was near murderous. "When I finally die-- I hope I burn for eternity in the fiery pits of hell. Slowly, in agony, to atone for every single sin I've committed in my life."

Ayaan trembled, tears burning the edges of his eyes-- was this fear? No, he was just sad. So, so, sad-- because even this kind man was burdened by suffering of its own kind.

Even this man, who was so kind to him, was just mentally insane after all.

ー

His stomach churned from hunger. Balling his fists in his hair, he buried his eyes into his knees, curled up in the corner of the slave quarters. 

Maybe he should sleep it off instead.

There was a muddiness in his head, a fogginess in his eyes. A burn in his throat, and a heat in his abdomen-- This mean he couldn't eat today.

Anything he'd eat today would be thrown right back out. It saved time and resources if he just didn't eat any at all.

This issue had been with him for longer than he could remember, but no one's been able to locate the cause even through all those doctors his master talked with.

No one would want a slave who was sick. Even less people want a pleasure slave who was struck with a mysterious illness.

That was when Ayaan realized-- ah, this master he has now isn't a monster.

His master was a blessing to him, a saviour in this situation. In fact, Ayaan was incredibly lucky to have gotten Master instead of anyone else, who would've thrown him right back into the hell of the market, in cramped ship coffins and bondage that dislocated his joints.

Khrue was kind.

_ Even in this situation, Khrue cared for others in the world _ \-- in Ayaan's opinion, that was amazing. Ayaan thought of no one but himself, and how he would live, and how he would go on here. That's right-- _ even Anise was like that _ \-- caring, and loving to others, (her children,) at the cost of her own self.

_ Why? _

Even though Ayaan didn't eat a thing that night, he still vomited.

Blood and bile fused into a disgusting concoction he threw into the waters. He felt like he was retching out his own organs, crying in just pain, pain,  _ pain _ . His head burned with fires, tearing itself apart in a migraine-- his ear screamed into him, reminding him once and again and again just  _ why _ .

_ He was disgusting, inside and out _ .

Khrue was right, he deserved nothing in this world, not even happiness.

Anise was right, he couldn't just sit around and do nothing about it.

He wanted release from this world. He wanted release from just everything in existence.

He wanted to die.

But he couldn't-- if death came so easy, he wouldn't be alive.

His tears were red that day, and he didn't really think about why. Throwing up everything his body decided was poison to him, even air-- that was his illness. 

His job in this world was to  _ suffer _ .

There's no justifiable reason for it.

He'd just become numb to the agony, so his body reminded him of it. That's was all there is to it.

ー

That night, his dream was dark. 

The world was flooded with black, fluttering butterflies-- so thickly, so crowded, Ayaan felt he was walking through layers upon layers of thick curtains.

There was no noise-- just specks of glow that made these butterflies visible-- but nothing else.

Until he heard sobbing.

Someone, choking in tears and sniffling terribly, muttering and crying to herself--

Ayaan turned around, and found a woman. Her clothes were strange and black, like the long hair draped across her shoulders.

She sat down, blanketed by black flutters, curled up small and fearfully--  _ Was she scared of the butterflies? Why? _

**"It's okay,"**

Ayaan heard her voice close-- right at his ear-- no, it was directly into his head. A voice that echoed through the walls but came from emotions--

**"It's okay, Ayaan,"**

Looking closer, Ayaan noticed she cradled something in her hands-- so preciously hidden and shielded with her own body, she was crying for it--

A lone white butterfly, fluttering weakly in her palms. She held it so carefully, fearing it would shatter to pieces but not willing to let it go either-- she sobbed and sobbed so powerlessly, encouraging sweet nothings as she cried until she was blind.

**"It'll all be alright, I promise."**

The woman never noticed Ayaan standing right before her-- and Ayaan was stuck to the ground, not sure why he didn't approach her either.


	17. a red-haired resolution.

Muu Alexius, knight of the Reim Empire, servant of Scheherazade-- and direct descendant of the founder of the Reim Empire. Reigning champion of the Colosseum-- and even as a half blood, he was stronger than many of the Fanalis challengers. He gathers the loyalty of a troop of personal soldiers that could very well conquer a country on its own.

These were big words to describe such a small man, yet he never felt honoured by them.

Myron Alexius, nicknamed Myuron by her family-- she was a strong yet beautiful woman, with the ferocity of a beast in the arena. Although a half blood and a girl, she was not looked down upon by a single man in the castle.

These two, with the feror of the Hunter in their blood, live to this day holding firm to their pride, to overcome their past of slavery marked right down to their bloodline.

What I say now takes place much before that-- much before he began to thrive, much before he could fix even himself.

This happened only shortly after Ayaan left his field of vision that day in the Colosseum. 

Desperate, with a heart of such torn yearning, Muu gave chase. Accompanied by Ignatius Alexius, Muu parted from Scheherazade, and wandered toward the end of the world.

He ran home, not wanting to believe he'd lost Ayaan forever.

_ — _

Travelling in the Dark Continent with a red-haired man and a gold-haired man wasn't easy. Hair colour was something people look out for in this area-- red ones were expensive to sell, and gold ones were always bad news to the people of Cathargo.

Muu wasn't ready to go back into slavery and drag Ignatius-- who did absolutely nothing wrong except tagging along as a guardian-- down with him. He'd sooner die than be a harbinger of misfortune.

Sitting at the counter of a bar in Cathargo, Muu was silent. He was empty, expressionless, and without a voice of defiance. He was quiet and still-- he was  **listening** .

Listening to the chatter of the cacophony.

His mind tuned to a particular group of semi-drunkards in broad daylight, Muu hoped the gossip of the Dark Continent was good, educational gossip.

_ "Have you heard? Some weird tower's risen up around the rift this time." _

_ "Really? All the more reason never to go there, then." _

_ "I heard a few of those red-haireds were on the other end of the rift, though." _

_ "Ain't that just a rumour?" _

**Drunkards speak loud,** Muu learned quickly,  **and if you'd give your ears some time, important things would rise to mind.**

_ The rift _ , he remembered-- a place Uncle Amir told him to not get close to. The fall was too deep to survive, and the climb down would be impossible even for the adults. No one could see the bottom, after all.

Much more, a weird tower?

"Ig," he whispered, "do you think that weird tower they're talking about...?"

Ignatius took a sip of water, "it must be a dungeon," he nodded, "like the one that was erected behind the palace gardens in Reim."

Muu clenched the cup in his hands-- that meant danger. He'd heard that thousands upon thousands have braved the one in his own country, and none came out alive-- how much more would die for a dungeon out in this desert?

But, he realized--

_ Maybe Ayaan's there. Maybe everyone else that escaped from slavery already, is there.  _ If there are Fanalis on the other end of the Continental Rift-- Muu thought it'd be worth the risk.

He wasn't going to enter the dungeon anyways-- just go around it...

"Let's go to the rift, Ig," he decided, "I want to see if the rumours hold true."

Myu's waiting for him at home--  _ waiting for him _ , and waiting for good news.

Myu, who cried her eyes out so long that day and hasn't stopped mourning every night-- Myu, his precious little sister that had forgotten her smile.

Muu didn't know how to comfort her sister-- she was just inconsolable even though she bragged her strength so far. 

Well, it wasn't as if Muu really remembered how to be happy, either.

_ — _

In this country, they couldn't find a single man with red hair.

Even though this used to be the town of red-haired mercenaries, now there wasn't even a strand of a dyed lock-- Because red was now the colour of death.

Flaunting such a colour in this area was sheer suicide.

Muu only felt himself hurting inside at the sight of each dark-haired person that walked by. He'd heard the man that caused this whole incident had dark hair-- maybe he was still out there, alive, well, thriving in riches, while Muu suffered in misery eternally.

_ How was that fair?  _ How,  _ how how _ , how could he ever be forgiven?  **No, hedeservesdeath-- he needed to be dead, Muu wanted him dead, with his very own hands, he could strangle that man. He could crush his skull with one grip. He could make him suffer the same way he made everyone else suffer back then and even now.**

But Muu breathed in, breathed out.

_ He was over this issue now _ , he reminded himself.

He didn't stop hoping that Mr Wabu would suffer in his death, though. He just stopped thinking about it, because Lady Scheherazade didn't like the awful stench of this bloodlust he emitted. 

Lady Scheherazade didn't like it when Muu was bloodthirsty for depraved reasons.

Because at this rate, Muu-- such a kind, gentle, and thoughtful boy-- would first fall into depravity-- and Scheherazade wanted anything but that.


	18. a shell of what it once was.

One of the towns closest to the edge-- a small, secluded stretch of land, not too much growth for harvest, being the desert and all-- but the happy town was erected with plenty of huts for its healthy population, and music from the daytime song would chime on everyone's tongues, echoed by the laughter of children running errands-- 

That was Al'Ula, and that was Muu's hometown.

(Or at least, that was what Ignatius heard Muu describe it as.)

So when they walked in on a wasteland, Ignatius felt so  _ hurt _ . Muu, he couldn't even begin to imagine how Muu felt about it.

The wind was loud in the silence, a tumbleweed gyrated across the ridge. Brick walls were torn and clawed off, and rotted inside as the moths ate out of the old soil.

Trees were tumbled and some stained with a suspicious shade of old maroon. Sand was a layer across everything as if this was all part of a precious fossil piece-- unsalvageable, yet detained.

Some were weather-caused-- roofs caved in, walls corroded inwards-- there was no stench-- only the scorching burn of the desert passed through these artifacts, going straight across as its scent melded in with the destroyed town-- letting the town become nothing but a lost history.

He found a wine bottle beside the crumbled fence-- he stomped on it, crushing it to bits, the noise a substitute for the ear-piercing cry he was now too strong to shed.

Fists clenched and lips closed too tight, Muu walked in.

The third house on the row southwest from the field-- that was the house Muu and Myu lived in when they were younger-- the house they'd play in, huddled in a comfortable circle, chatting about adventures in the glorious town of the Reim Empire--

The curtain door was a shower of dust to part, but when Muu walked in he was surprised to find the inside mostly untouched from where he'd left it-- 

The blanket was still partially on the ground from where he was hurried out of bed, the tables were still swiped across, contents over the chair and the mat from where he'd struggled-- 

No one's come back, the realization struck him so hard-- no one, _ no one _ .

No one's made it out of the slave trade yet.

No one except Muu, with special privileges and connections.

_ That was just unfair, wasn't it? _

He dropped to his knees, and reached for an overturned picture frame on the ground, deep under the desk-- the glass was in pieces, and the wood was so old it creaked at a little touch.

It was a photo of him. Of Muu-- just Muu, no Alexius-- as he squeaked in shock, Myron leaping in an engulfing hug over him in the exact second of the picture-- Myron had squealed with happiness that day, having finally won a fight against Ayaan for the hundredth time--

Lo'lo towered above them, laughing at Muu's flustered expression. Muu chuckled, remembering how he'd snapped at the boy for teasing him-- not that Muu could ever win a fight against Lo'lo, but Muu had managed to land one good punch in after that.

Beside them, Ayaan sat on the ground with his legs crossed and his arms in his laps, looking down as a tear peeked out from the corner of his eye. soft burgundy hair was ragged and wrapped over with bandages at his head. He was covered head to toe in scratches and plasters from what looked like a rogue war with a wild kitten--

And seated snugly beside Ayaan-- with short burgundy hair a shade more maroon-- that was Fakhir, Ayaan's older brother. He was speaking to Ayaan, probably consoling his younger brother for his lost match-- 

"Friends?" Ignatius inquired, understanding it would've been a touchy subject-- but maybe, speaking it out would be better than keeping it in. If Ignatius could do something, he could listen.

Muu, rather than shell in, decided to smile.

"This one's me, and that's Myron," he pointed out to the older man,showing him the picture after taking it out of the ragged frame, "and this kid's Ayaan. He's a few months younger than Myron, so they always played together."

Ignatius caught sight of the rather cute pout on the boy in the picture-- and his mind flashed back to the slave Fanalis he'd seen go berserk in the arena, countless times.

Ignatius, wimpy as he was, looked away to hold back a cringe.

It was hard to accept what this world was doing to little children like him. Once so dear, now so broken. Once human, now just a vile beast.

"This one standing beside me is Lo'lo, and the other one's Fakhir," somehow, Ignatius heard Muu's voice grow rather soft at this one, "he was... my best friend."

Muu stood up, and he reached for the rest of the pictures around-- family photos, ones with his mother, with Ayaan's mother-- with Fakhir's dad, with Lo'lo's--

Ignatius didn't pry.

Muu turned outside, facing Ignatius with a cheeky grin, "I'll show you around!"

And Muu led him through the ruddy roads, across various huts in many shapes and strange sizes. Even though the houses were in ruin, Muu pulled Ignatius around like a child, eager and excited to show off his old home and its wonders.

The fields, stamped on with dried, disfigured mud, overturned with bricks and crops scorched-- Muu he pridefully presented it as the holy land of harvest. Everything that grew out of it was a blessing from the gods, but Muu and Lo'lo loved to steal the first bite of corn--  _ oh, those things could've been our specialty. Reim has nothing as good as it _ \-- the scolding and punishment that came after being discovered was worth every bit of it.

The young'uns fighting hall, unofficially named, was a shoddy open shed made of wood-- mannequins were lined up on one side of it, broken pieces piled up in the other.

"In our village, you're considered an adult once you're able to break those mannequins with one punch or kick!" Muu explained, "I never managed to do it, though! Maybe in three or six kicks was my record... but Fakhir could do it! He was definitely the strongest for the children my age."

Different tribes had different traditions. For Ignatius, who lived in the city all his life-- this was rather amusing to him. It seemed like a waste of resources, but who was he to judge?

He wasn't feeling cowardly. Not at all. _ (those things. are made. of sheer. WOOD.)  _ Yeah, he could definitely break one, he's an adult, after all-- _ (holycrap these fanalis kids can probably kick down a big TREE in one kick--) _

He wasn't horrified. Nope.

(He took a step back from Muu, and silently reminded himself to never fight Muu barehanded.)

"Ayaan was always the weakest, even against us halfbloods," Muu reminisce, "because he was always sickly. He was smart, but not as strong-- we all wanted him to know that he didn't need to be."

The hut with the lone flat roof was Granny Ilma's house, the village elder. It was next to a brick building-- the only brick-made shelter as far as Ignatius could see. Bricks seemed to only be used for walls or fences in this town-- so if this building was made with it, it should be something important?

"That's the nursery," Muu explained, "Myu was never allowed in there because she was such a roughneck!" he joked, snickering at that.

Ignatius choked on a laugh, "I can imagine that so well!" he agreed.

"But Ayaan was gentle," Muu smiled to himself, "for a Fanalis boy, he was the most docile even compared to the women and elderly. He was always looked down for it, though."

Ignatius smiled back, "he sounds like a nice boy."

"He was!" Muu beamed in pride.

A clatter overhead interrupted the moment, and the shifting of wooden planks caused some dirt to shave off the ceiling.

Muu shot his gaze upward in alarm-- but the figure flew down first.

With a two-handed weapon-- two short Francesca axes, Muu recognized-- the figure threw them down toward the two intruders of the house.

Shoving Ignatius aside, Muu spun around to catch the other before it embedded into the desk and destroyed it. He staggered, the force and weight of the axe stronger than he'd expected.

Pulling his hood over his head just a little lower, he grunted and hoped his hair wasn't seen--

"Just strolling into people's houses, flaunting that bright gold hair," the assaulter growled, uprooting the axes from the ground-- "you must love danger."

The attacker was a man not too tall at all-- covered fully with a raggedy brown sack cloak, his intent to kill was clear in the scars on his arms.

Muu's eyes lifted at the voice-- 

The man hissed at Ignatius, "are you a slave trader? How dare you even  _ think _ of coming into the Dark Continent--" his grip on his axe tightened in furor as he roared like a monster, "after what  _ your _ people did to  _ mine!" _

Ignatius flinched, on the ground-- the axe had penetrated the hardened, sun-baked soil. How much strength did this child have?

Ignatius didn't need the threat to know his life was in  _ danger _ .

"Stop it!" Muu raised his voice, quickly putting himself before Ignatius, his poise ready to fight. Who knew what an enraged, full-blood Fanalis could do against a foreigner now-- Muu might not win this battle.

"You stink of gold and herbs, but you... you smell like a Fanalis," the man gritted his teeth, "you live a life of luxury. What makes you think you could understand what this town went through?"

Muu pulled off his hood, baring his face-- a risky move, "I may be a half-blood, and I may have been saved early," Muu stressed the word deeply, "but I won't let my family be taken from me again. If a Fanalis is the next thing to stand in my way, it would pain me greatly to take you down. Please, let us talk this through."

"A half blood?" the man questioned, as if a surprised realization rather than a question-- "a half-blood, in Al'Ula?"

Muu shrank, hesitant-- 

Hesitant, because he recognized this voice.

He couldn't put a finger on it. It was a little deeper than he'd remembered it to be-- the man didn't smell very familiar either. Maybe his scent changed-- it's been so many years, after all-- even Muu's body odour changed.

But--

Muu's eyes turned to the axe in his hand. An old Francesca with a wooden hilt, a brown webbed sash, and a steel-spiraled wood hilt.

On one edge of the wood, carved in clumsy knifework--  **AMiR** .

"Why do you have Uncle Amir's axe?" the question blurted from him before he knew it, "you have both of them. And you know how to use them well."

The man had stopped moving as well as shock overcame him-- his hand dropped down, fighting spirit gone as he looked at the half-blood before him-- and suddenly, Muu's appearance was just so  _ familiar _ , so  _ nostalgic _ to him.

His eyes flashed with a sudden understanding. Muu abruptly just  _ understood _ \--

He lifted his head, "Fakhir?"


	19. and he speaks of what's passed.

There was a quiet.

The weapon fell from his hand-- and Fakhir took one step back. 

Muu watched as the man-- the man he didn't want to stop calling his best friend-- pull down his hood-- and showed him his hair, cropped short as it was before.

There were no words exchanged-- just a tight, painful biting of lips, tearful eyes-- a deep, long look and a shaky breath. Two steps forward, a crushing hug that hurt every bone but warmed his heart up so, so much.

They breathed out each other's names in sheer relief, so grateful and so emotional, even just for a moment they didn't want to think of anything else.

They stayed for maybe a moment too long-- sat down, and began to talk.

And Fakhir spoke long. Long and hard-- about what really went down that day.

ー

ー

ー

_ That day, his life came down much too quickly for him to even realize it was going. _

_ "Fanalis are usually fistfighters," his father Amir chuckled, pulling one of his axes from behind him, the chain at its end connected to his wrist. "They don't like fragile little weapons that are weaker than themselves." _

_ And Fakhir understood-- why use a sword if a sword was something even a child Fanalis could shatter to pieces? It was impractical. _

_ "But, for Muu and Uncle Sharma right here--" Amir gestured at the man with a large wooden club beside them-- "half bloods, they can do what a normal Fanalis can't-- to make weapons their strength-- and make themselves much stronger." _

_ "Is that why Dad loses to Uncle Sharma all the time?" Lo'lo chirped up with a tease. _

_ "I don't lose!" Uncle Khalil snapped defensively. "He actually poisoned those tiger claws! they hurt, y'know!" _

_ "You guys can swat me around like a fly, and that hurts too!" Uncle Sharma growled right back. _

_ The two children laughed, and Uncle Amir casually stepped in between them so they could stop their incessant bickering. _

_ "Then, why's Dad using one?" Fakhir spoke up, pointing at the two large francesca axes Uncle Amir always showed proudly behind him-- "even though we aren't half bloods." _

_ Amir laughed, "see, Fakhir, something you gotta know is that barriers are meant to be broken," he pointed his axe at a bull in the far distance, "if everyone tells you weapons make you weak, I'll become someone that can use a weapon and still be so much stronger." _

_ A group of adults and two children in their teens. _

_ They hunted the desert for the entire day, searching for specific prey-- they wanted to bring home the biggest haul they could take down. _

_ But the promised Desert Vulcans-- they were nowhere. _

_ ー _

_ "Three boars and a bull... is this really everything we managed to find?" Khalil breathed out in disbelief. _

_ "What happened to the eagles? The scorpions, the antelopes?" Amir couldn't accept this, throwing his axe down in frustration, "the old Vulcan nest was abandoned, too. What's going on?" _

_ Fakhir and Lo'lo stood aside, fearful of how angered the adults were. _

_ The sun was in the midst of setting-- it was time for them to depart home-- usually victoriously, joyously-- but today, there weren't even snakes in the oasis. _

_ The desert was empty. Much empty than it always felt-- like everything was asleep, the desert was at rest, and no life moved. _

 

_ "Amir!" Sharma called out from afar-- he was rushing forward, frantic-- "I found the Vulcans. They're in the sunken cave, all of them." _

_ But Manaf didn't look pleased, "all of them-- asleep." _

_ "All of them are together..." Khalil clicked his tongue, "it won't be worth the fight. Let's call off the hunt, Amir. Today wasn't a good hunting day." _

_ At that, Fakhir's heart sank-- "but-!!" _

_ Lo'lo grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him back from intervening with the adult's bad temperaments. _

_ "But... I promised Ayaan..." Fakhir muttered only to himself-- he was heartbroken, voice failing. _

_ Amir pressed his face into his hands, taking deep breaths-- then ended with a sigh. _

_ "It's a portent," he realized, picking up his axe and strapping it across his back, turning in the direction of their village immediately, "the desert-- fate-- it's trying to warn us." _

_ "A por-- an omen?" Khalil was alarmed. _

_ "Let's hurry back," Amir clutched his fist, dragging up his bag to his shoulder-- turning toward the two younger ones, "Fakhir, Lo'lo, keep up." _

 

ー

"That day..." Fakhir spoke to Muu-- so much tired and exhaustion on his face, he sat down by a cot, on the ground, looking as if he was ready to burst into tears right then and there-- "we knew something was wrong. We knew, we really did."

Muu gripped his fist-- "but you were too late... right?"

Muu's memories were foggy that day-- his sickness-riddled mind, his hazing blur of trauma from the time right after-- even Myron never wished to reminisce on that very day.

If that was how Muu felt, he didn't want to imagine what he was trying to get Fakhir to do now, telling him what happened on his end.

"It was dead," Fakhir choked out, burying an eye into his palm, "the village-- it was just-- dead, everyone, even Granny Ilma..."

Muu flinched, "Fakhir, that's enou--"

"I looked for Ayaan," when Fakhir said that name, Muu felt his heart spasm in such a horrid pain, "but he wasn't anywhere. Everything in the village just stank of blood and wine and--"

His breath was ragged, his tone was laced with tears, his heart was out of tune.

But he just kept speaking.

And Muu couldn't find time to tell him to stop. Tell him to stop, because Muu was about to cry too-- but Muu was too far out to try. Fakhir was too far gone to stop.

"Then Dad found Mom," Fakhir looked up, "he found  _ Mom _ ."

Muu couldn't. Breaking into sobs, he fell to his knees-- what was he supposed to do? apologize? no. That wasn't what Fakhir needed. That wasn't what Fakhir really needed at all.

 

"Dad, Uncle Khalil, Uncle Sharma-- Uncle Manaf--" Fakhir chanted the names out so brokenly, "they told Lo'lo and I to stay-- and they just... they just  _ left _ ."

_ They gave chase. _

Fakhir broke down into such pitiful sobs-- Muu'd never seen him like this. The strongest boy, the boy that was always the happiest, kindest-- he was now so weak, so broken, so-- _ fractured _ .

_ They never came back. _

 

Simply wrapping the other boy into the tightest, warmest hug he could give, Muu cried with him.

 

Standing outside the room and pretending he could hear nothing, Ignatius drew his hood over his head and shadowed over every golden lock he held.


	20. and he hears of the horrors.

"That's the Torran Tribe," Fakhir gestured from afar-- the little village in the midst of the desert, consisting of sharp tents, proud totems, and spiked fences-- but from where they stood, it looked empty.

Fakhir put a finger to his lips, eyeing Ignatius, "Mr Iggy, stay here."

"Mr Ig-?"

"I suppose they're hostile," Muu observed calmly with a sigh.

"Can't blame them," Fakhir shrugged, pulling his hood up securely and tying a red handkerchief to his wrist with his teeth, "I would've castrated blondie over there if you weren't with him."

"Castra--?!"

"Understandable," Muu grumbled, considering the circumstances, "but to think this area, where Manama and Riyadh used to be, would be so desolate..."

It was barren land for miles of what they could see. Without life, without even a piece of wood from the villages that once stood so proud and prosperous and full of golden wheat.

"Apparently, a while back, we accepted a foreigner temporarily... but that was a case-by-case basis, so... well, I'll introduce you to the elder, and maybe we can bring Lo'lo out here to talk. Mr Iggy seems too weak to be left alone out here for too long, anyways."

"Is it just me, or he's being very mean to me?" Ignatius turned to Muu.

"That's just his way of showing love, don't mind him," Muu smiled back.

Ignatius minded, a lot.

ー

"Muu!!!" 

"Wait, Lo'lo, don't--!!"

Muu felt a gorilla bulldoze into him. It was a critical hit. He dead. He fuckin dead.

"Long time, uh, no see," Muu choked out, raising a weak arm, hoping there wasn't brain damage when his head crashed against the ground just now. Thank the heavens there was no rock-- "you got hella _ huge _ over time."

Even Fakhir didn't grow as huge as that-- Lo'lo was almost the size of Uncle Amir, although Uncle Amir was considered among the below average in the adults-- but still! Lo'lo's still in his... teens! ...Right?

"Maybe it's a growth spurt," Lo'lo shrugged. "You smell like leaves."

Sitting around the rocks, it was hard.

 

Hard to take in that  _ finally _ , and at long last-- they had each other again.

It was hard to believe.  Other memories were fresh in their minds-- but now,  _ changed _ and  _ different- _ \- they were _ together _ .

"Lo'lo," Muu finally mustered the courage to ask-- his eyes were so reluctant, his fists clawed into sand-- he couldn't even bear to look, "what happened to your face?"

 

"Well, it's a long story," Lo'lo chuckled dryly, "after the whole fuss, we found this village, and we hid out here as their bodyguards of sort, because the Torran tribe aren't strong like us."

"But they accepted us," Fakhir quickly added in-- "they were willing to take us in when we were alone. They had limited resources-- but they shared it with us."

 

_ You're not stopping me, Fakhir, _ Lo'lo had never been more resolved about something,  _ you stay. You can't leave this place alone. I'll go. Trust me, please.  _

Fakhir didn't like the topic either.

"Lo'lo went after them," his fingers trembled, his lips quivered-- "then he got captured too."

Lo'lo only smiled a little sadly, placing  hand at the scar on his face-- a gash that gouged into bone-- exposing his gums, making him look horrific--

"I wanted to help Dad--" he admitted-- why did he sound the least miserable of them? Why was he smiling? Why wasn't he breaking down, like Fakhir was just from recalling it?

"I ended up being a hostage, so they could force the adults to work."

**Why was he so numb and strong toward it?**

_ No, _ Muu found himself realizing so hurtfully,  _ Lo'lo wasn't the strange one here. _

Lo'lo was always mentally strong. He took after his blind mother, who never faltered despite her flaws. On the other hand, Fakhir took after his mother Fainan, gentle and compassionate-- so emphatic, yet meaninglessly emotional-- it was a weakness endeared by all.

 

"There are strange structures by the rift--" Lo'lo spoke up, alarming Muu-- "dungeons, they called it. And one day-- they sent everyone, Dad-- they sent them in."

Muu stood up with a start.

Because that tower still stood.

 

 

"Before they went in-- I ran," Lo'lo told them, "they said we'd meet up again... but they never came out of there."

"Then," Fakhir bit his own lip, "he made it back to this hidden village."

That was it.

 

Muu felt his vision blur from the tears that brimmed through.

_ Some of the strongest men Muu's ever known _ \-- five of the most admirable-- and for  _ his _ sake--  _ How much had Lo'lo already lost within himself? _ There was no way he was completely alright, no matter how much mental fortitude he held within himself.

 

"After Lo'lo came back," Fakhir suddenly looked up-- "I went to Reim."

Muu jerked, shocked. 

"What?!" he couldn't believe what he was hearing, "you couldn't-- Fakhir, tell me you didn't."

"Red hair would stand out, so I chopped it all off!" Fakhir joked, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes, "I just wanted to--"

"You have no idea how dangerous it could have been!" Muu dropped to his knees, grabbing Fakhir's shoulders and just pleading, "all that happened to Lo'lo! Why did you just--"

"I know!" Fakhir snapped-- "but when I thought-- when I thought that all of that could be happening to Ayaan, I--"

Muu felt his heart stop so immediately.

 

"I looked and looked and--" Fakhir was in tears now, "I didn't even care about anything else. Ayaan's all I have left-- Muu, I--"

Muu was hearing this.

He wasn't shutting it out.

Muu was hearing this, and he wanted so hard to tell him to stop. To stop, because Muu felt his heart twist in agony with each word-- but he didn't have the words.

 

"Muu, I hid out as a _ slave trader _ ," Fakhir burst out, 

 

 

 

 

"I thought, if I did that-- I could maybe hear rumours in the trade about him-- I did! I did, I was so close-- then, I lost him, and--"

 

The rest of the details were lost in a mess of agony, anguish, and tears-- _ I freed the slaves _ , his hands shivered,  _ then they caught me and then I became a slave-- then bandits attacked-- I ran free and hid out in the slums-- until Lo'lo found me and dragged me back into place _ .

 

So much had happened. So much, and what had Muu been doing this whole time?

_ What had Muu been doing all this time, bathing in luxury and comfort and time and belonging and knighthood and recognition and riches and gold and loyalty and pride? _

 

"Fakhir, stop talking," Lo'lo was abrupt, a hand rounding around the smaller's shoulders-- "Muu?"

 

Muu, on his knees-- stared at the ground. 

Everything was cold. Everything was painful. Breath, blinks, thoughts. Everything didn't make sense. No, everything did. The only thing that didn't make sense was how Muu could even  _ pretend _ to be happy about this reunion.

 

How could he tell them now?

How much of a failure he just was?

 

" _ I'm sorry _ ," the word escaped him in such a pathetic sob, choked out from the same despair he felt that very day he saw the boy walk away from him, " _ I'm so sorry, Fakhir _ ."

 

 

Muu wished he were dead.

Muu wished he were stronger.

 

He was weaker than even Fakhir--

because he couldn't even choke out the words to admit just how he'd lost something so precious to the three of them.

 

He couldn't even face his own cowardliness.


	21. for once, his melancholy is glad.

Ayaan eyed the arrow in his hand.

Perhaps it was a fisherman's harpoon-- one from a crossbow, a small arrow for decently-sized marine creatures.

He dove into the waters to retrieve a fallen chain-- and felt the harpoon whirl through the waters in his direction. Only managing to bring a hand up as a shield, the sharpened end drilled through the flesh of his palm and disfigured the bone, gushing red ink that stained the waters.

Ayaan winced, but he was not far from the surface. He broke above the waters where the slave master, Khrue, waited for him-- tossed him the silver chain he was sent to retrieve-- and realized the arrow was connected to rope.

In the distance, he saw a child, with a crossbow-- looking absolutely horrified.

Ayaan decided it was a misfire.

The tip was jagged, but not poisoned. He washed the blood away in the sea, not too sure why the water made the wound sting.

"Wait!" Khrue crouched down quickly.

Without a moment of hesitation, Ayaan reached behind his palm, and ripped the arrow right out. before snapping it in half and returning it to the ocean.

But before he could pull himself out of the waters, Khrue had roughly grabbed him by the wrist.

"I told you to **_wait_ ** , you moron!" he raised his voice, "do you have no concept of physical sustenance?"

Ayaan paused, taken aback. He didn't think he'd done anything strange or wrong.

"You might be a Fanalis, but doesn't that still hurt?" Khrue looked so pained to ask this.

He hated how Ayaan eyed him right back-- confused, the Fanalis didn't even know what was wrong with him  _ hurting _ . He didn't understand why Khrue was angered at him for being injured.

Khrue gritted his teeth, and looked around to the other slaves. Dragging Ayaan out of the waters by the arm, careful not to touch the wound or let the wound touch anything, he led the young Fanalis away.

"The master would be displeased if that festers," he muttered, displeased, "you will not carry the rest of the cargo. Today, take the place of the Master's usual aide."

Ayaan did not understand.

He simply nodded-- thinking that this, in its own way, was his punishment.

He was still exhausted from last night, after all.

ー

"It is a pleasure to meet you personally, King Sinbad."

Master was being humble-- Ayaan was intrigued. Master did not wear all his jewellery today-- only a ring on his finger, only one earring, and a simple silver chain. He was sitting on the couch, facing a man with long, purple hair and elegant white robes.

Ayaan smelled none of royalty's perfume on this man his Master called King.

In fact, he had no scent, like the people on the streets.

 

"Please raise your head, sire, there is no need for such formalities," Sinbad smiled at the man before him, "my coronation is only the day after, so it is fine to address me without the title."

Ayaan stood behind the couch his Master reclined in-- hands folded behind him, head lowered, eyes on the ground.

He considered the three men standing by the King-- a white-haired man with freckles, a crimson-haired boy with soft red eyes, and a large, blue-haired man, with a figure so huge he was overpowering just in charisma alone.

Ayaan wondered if they were slaves, too.

Because that red-haired oone-- he was a Fanalis. If he was a Fanalis, he had to be a slave, right?

 

"That would be preposterous, your Masjesty!" Master smiled so professionally, "I am greatly in your debt. Is it the least I could offer in respect."

Ayaan turned his ears from the scene, and focused on staying upright.

He felt a shot of agony searing through from his injured palm. But as he closed his fist lightly, he was glad it wasn't bleeding.

Biting his lip, he struggled to stay stoical.

 

"I suppose that young boy is your aide?" the conversation had turned to Ayaan.

Ayaan straightened his back, but kept his eyes low. He could feel the tattoos on his skin reflecting a glaring red hue into the King's eyes-- it was made for that purpose, after all-- to stand out so much everyone would know instantly that Ayaan belonged to his Master.

At this point, Ayaan didnt care much for it.

"Yes, indeed," Master beamed proudly, "this is my most prided slave."

Ayaan wasn't sure why the mood went stale.

King Sinbad held up a hand, and Ayaan saw the red-haired boy's shoulders loosen from tension.

"I see you treasure him quite a bit," King Sinbad mused-- and Ayaan realized that the smile had quickly immersed into something a little less sincere.

A fake, professional smile.

Ayaan felt hatred bubble in his stomach-- as if he remembered that same smile once being on someone he hated very very much.

He didn't understand why he was feeling angry, though. The burning sensation in his palm, under the bandages, distracted him enough to mellow out his bloodlust.

"Even among the small number I keep, Toska is rather _ special _ ," Master was so prideful he rather belatedly noticed the hostility directed at him from the other Fanalis-- "he is very loyal."

"I see," King Sinbad smiled, "I do believe you understand that my country has a policy against the slave trade..."

"No, no!" Master frantically fixed himself, "I would never imagine to engage in slave trafficking! I simply buy slaves to aid in my business. I do not engage in the trade myself. I swear on my honour as a merchant."

A moment of silence.

"If that is so, that's a relief," King Sinbad folded his hand in front of him, "it is a great honour to have a famed merchant such as yourself expand into my country."

"The pleasure is all mine, dear King."

 

ー

 

"Has the Master dismissed you?" Khrue had been waiting outside-- he did not bring his whip, because it would be preposterous to bring such a thing into palace grounds-- but he was still stern without it.

Ayaan stood with his arms still folded behind his back, and nodded.

Khrue scrutinized him-- then scooped up Ayaan's hand from behind him.

The movement was much too sudden for Ayaan to respond in time, despite him having superior strength-- the pain, too, kept him from resisting.

"The wound has infected," Khrue tutted, "have you plucked at the strings?"

Ayaan shook his head. 

His wounds were always stitched up hastily, so Ayaan had picked up the habit of tearing at the strings before they healed. Now that Khrue bound it much too tightly with bandages, Ayaan couldn't touch it at all.

"Then it must have been the sea water," Khrue decided with a click in his tongue, "and yet, disinfectant does not work on you..."

Ayaan looked down, a little forlorn.

"Is something the matter?"

Khrue flinched.

Behind him-- one of the famed eight generals-- Ayaan recognized him as one of the few that stood beside the King in the prior meeting. He had white hair, and a sprinkle of freckles on his gentle-looking face.

"S-Sir," Khrue addressed the man, getting on a knee-- seeing that, Ayaan did so too.

Even if this man was not royalty of any sort, the two of them were ranked much too low to stand on the same level of ground.

"Ah, please, withhold the formalities," Ja'far chuckled, "I'm simply passing by, after all."

"It would be insolence, sir-- I must insist."

"Then at least, could I see that wound?" Ja'far turned to Ayaan-- who tensed.

_...huh? _

"It is contaminated, sir, we couldn't dare--"

"It is fine," Ja'far persisted, "in this country-- even slaves and servants are one of our many citizens. Taking care of guests is among the elements we pride ourselves in, after all."

Ayaan was hearing this-- and he was confused.

But for the first time, his confusion was not a murky, irritating one. It was a light-- delighted one. A gentle, warm air wafted through his chest--

That day, as Ja'far treated his wounds-- 

Ayaan felt  _ uncomfortable _ .

Because for once, he just wasn't  _ hurting _ .

  
  


Yet, as discomforting as this felt--

he couldn't help but smile as he thought of it again that night.


	22. to know your place now.

They stood adjacent to each other, on either side of the door.

Ayaan's Master had told him to wait outside. King Sinbad had requested for the generals to stay outside as well, as an expression of trust toward a business partner.

Masrur had stayed even as Ja'far and the rest left to their posts. Now the man stood firm in his position, glancing at Ayaan every once in a while.

Ayaan stayed perfectly still.

His hand felt better now, but his eyes drooped-- his eyelids sank heavier each moment-- he hadn't had the greatest rest last night (when exactly had he ever?) and it was, despite everything, taking its toll. He shut his eyes for a second, and lost consciousness for a split moment.

A rather painful jerk in his instincts jolted him right awake. He staggered to his knees, then shot back up quickly.

He realized Masrur had responded. A hand outstretched and a sense of worry in his features, the red-haired general was concerned for the boy and his sudden near-collapse.

Ayaan shook the tired out of his eyes, and stood a little firmer, a nail digging into his forearm behind his back.

The discomfort would keep him aware.

"Uhm, are you okay?"

Ayaan flinched back, realizing Masrur was now in front of him. No one-- not a single person had ever come close to him like this before.  _ Not willingly, unless it was for _ \-- Ayaan was petrified.

Masrur's hand before him was purely out of concern-- wanting to help him-- but Ayaan could not understand that. No one had come this close to him without the intention to  _touch_ him wrongly. And Ayaan knew if he tore away, the consequences were much worse.

His breath held, his fingers tensed-- his heart sped up, and his lips pressed thin. A hard gulp slid painfully down his throat.

 

Suddenly understanding that the boy was  _ scared _ of him, Masrur pulled his hand back.

"Uhh... sorry," Masrur tried, stepping back a little.

 

 

"My deepest apologies, sir Masrur," Khrue stepped in quickly between them, arms stretched out for a barrier before Ayaan. "But has our  _ slave _ caused you any trouble?"

Masrur seemed to glare at the slave master at that-- was it for the sudden intervention? Was it the words Khrue said, despite Khrue's position?

Ayaan saw Khrue's hand shiver-- perhaps, this was considered rude. If so, Ayaan was causing trouble for Khrue-- that usually meant some form of a punishment Ayaan wouldn't like.

Ayaan was told to  _ stand by _ .

Ayaan couldn't cause trouble now.

 

"This...  _ child, _ is a rather... unstable one," Khrue adjusted his phrasing, sensing what words set the man off. He lowered his head, hands held together with one palm wrapping over a fist.

A respectful bow-- the most respectful one Khrue could think of now-- "he is not accustomed to standing guard-- I sincerely plead for your forgiveness, if his restlessness has been sore on the view."

"What is all the ruckus?"

All bodies froze over.

 

Ayaan dreaded turning to the door-- and meeting eyes with his Master. He was  _ furious _ .

Anything Ayaan did could be vital for his Master's image. Any mistake, intolerance, rudeness toward anyone-- Ayaan could make things fall apart for his Master.

He could, because Ayaan right now was a  _ slave,  _ no more but very possibly less.

 

"Khrue,"

At that call, the man turned to his Master-- closed his eyes shut and looked down. His hands held behind him like Ayaan usually poised, Khrue clenched his teeth tight as his Master threw a hard, resounding slap across his face.

Neither noticed how wide Masrur's eyes grew at the mere sight of it.

"I deeply regret any trouble my aides have caused upon you, dear General Masrur," Master bowed his head low.

Ayaan had never seen his Master bow before.

But Ayaan knew that  _ he, tonight, _ wouldn't be forgiven.

 

ー

 

"Stay still for half a- ouch," Khrue flinched at the hard swell on his cheek, plastered with a thick cotton wad.

They sat by the fountain, Ayaan on the ledge and Khrue crouching down before him.

Ayaan straightened his back again, unable to stop the shivering that quivered from the incredible ache in his hips. But he had to bear with it.

Khrue pulled a string of bandages across Ayaan's shoulder-- and bound it as securely as he could across the previously dislocated shoulder, binding across the new gash down his shoulder blade.

"We do not have enough hands to pardon you from any duties, despite your injuries," Khrue told Ayaan remorsefully, "being Master's aide requires the least physical strain among them all-- but it is also the riskiest. I'm sure you understand."

Ayaan nodded-- but even that sent a sharp jolt of pain across his head.

 

He was covered in bruises and new injuries that weren't life-risking wounds or infection-hazards. Khrue only had that nasty swell on his face, which made him much better off than Ayaan.

But Ayaan still felt regret. Pointing at Khrue's face, he tilted his head aside-- and gave a guilty expression.

"This?" Khrue understood the message, "it's fine. Happens all the time on my end... look, your work only gets more tiring each day, especially because you're Master's favourite."

Khrue was smiling. Ayaan wasn't sure why, but he liked it when Khrue was smiling. It was a happiness that made Ayaan feel a little calmer.

 

This was probably the first time Ayaan looked so closely at the boy's face.

His black hair-- no, it was a very deep green shade. The colour of the densest jade, but covered in mud and grime and chopped so hastily for ease of movement.

And although the top half of his face was framed with the ugly marks of their Master, Ayaan found a mole below his lips, hidden under a deep scar cut down his chin.

 

Khrue assured Ayaan, "hang on, alright? The coronation is tomorrow, after all. After this, we'll be back to shipment," he jabbed a thumb in the direction of, probably the sea? "once we settle down in Sindria, work will get a lot easier. For both of us. One you're healed, you'll be working twice as hard, got it?"

And Ayaan nodded.

"...Thank you."

 

Khrue stopped.

Ayaan forced himself up, and held his hands behind his back. Taking a deep breath, he bowed, and wordlessly excused himself. He headed straight toward where Master was-- 

 

Khrue was still stuck in place, speechless.

"Did he just--?"

 

ー

 

Turning a corner, Ayaan stumbled into someone. Stepping back, he winced from an ache in his foot-- and stumbled, falling back onto the ground.

"S-Sorry,"

Ayaan's heart stopped as he realized who that was.

Masrur was nervous around this boy-- this boy who seemed so tough, yet, felt so fragile. It was kind of like that palace maid in the kitchen who had a baby-- a small being that he couldn't touch, because he didn't know his own strength.

 

As he stretched out a hand to help him out-- Masrur feared if the boy would be too scared to take it again.

But this time, Ayaan crawled onto his knees, and eyed that hand almost skeptically.

As if he didn't know what the hand was stretched out for.

 

"Uhm," Masrur tried, "do you need help... getting up?"

 

And Ayaan looked down, unsure.

 

"What's this? Masrur, you found another kid to bully?"

An arm heaved across the boy's head, Masrur 'urk'ed as Hinahoho made himself known, using the shorter boy as an armrest.

"You can't do this just cause Sharrkan went home to Heliohapt, y'know?"

Masrur stood up straight, and sighed.

"I am not," he insisted, but pursued no further.

Hinahoho hummed with interest.

He eyed the boy, whose legs were sprawled across the floor. Ayaan's hair was long and unkempt, but not tied together. His slave attire was fancy-- sheer white, without sleeves but with patterned trims. He had full pants, sirwals-- yet, it was evident the boy was merely dressed up for the palace. He wore no shoes.

He did not look accustomed to neat clothing, or long pants at all. A thick bandage wrapped around one hand, whirled from his knuckles right to the center of his forearm. Another pulled thick across his shoulder, peeking out just slightly from under his shirt.

Bright red marked him in every visible inch, swirling, delicate patterns building a story with only one message-- that  _ this belongs to someone _ \-- hidden only slightly underneath were scars so deep they'd only fade in years.

 

What surprised him most, was when Ayaan picked himself up-- wobbly, but keeping his eyes on the ground, he picked up his hands and held them before him in what could only be a bow from the Kou Empire--

With a palm wrapped around a fist, Ayaan imitated Khrue, and bowed only his head.

"Please... excuse me," his voice was only a soft whisper, with shaky pronunciation, and hesitation fumbling every pitch.

 

"Toska,"

At the call, Ayaan flinched upward, and made his way past the two generals-- toward the door where his Master was waiting for him.


	23. so their world begins to end.

Masrur and Hinahoho sat down beside Khrue at the fountain.

Khrue, with a rather disgraceful yelp, straightened right up. The two beside him stretched out their feet, and tripping up miserably, Khrue fell face down into the grass.

"Stay," Hinahoho laughed, "like c'mon, we wanna talk."

Khrue got on his knees, facing the two. "I- If sir Hinahoho and sir Masrur would be alright... to be talking to a slave such as I..." he muttered, not too sure if he should.

"It's fine!" Hinahoho laughed, assuring the boy, "what's your name?"

_ Would it be rude to not answer them? Would Khrue be rude to speak to them at all?   _ He didn't really know. But if it was a conversation they were asking for, Khrue was happy to give it.

Entertainment was never Khrue's forte-- but as the slave master, Khrue was equipped with conversational abilities. Not that he liked them at all, nor was he about to use any tones with the Generals.

"My name is..." he held himself back, "my Master refers to me as Khrue."

"Is your face alright?" Masrur pointed at himself, gesturing at Khrue's cheek.

A hand shooting up to cover the thick plaster on his face, Khrue chuckled lightly, "this is nothing!" he quickly fumbled, "it is merely a part of what happens."

"Are slaves truly..." Masrur spoke up again, leaning forward a little more, "treated so... badly?"

And Hinahoho stopped-- because even he, himself-- barely realized this was Masrur's view on the world.

Trapped in Maader's family game, Masrur was treated like a gem. The children in the house were rarely abused on a daily basis unless they were disobedient-- Masrur, himself, was never disobedient. He was just stubborn-- and never broke out of pride.

Perhaps Masrur never knew the reality of what happened to Sinbad in that period of time he was captive. 

And Hinahoho-- he, himself, didn't wish to find out.

And it seemed Khrue noticed.

"Not usually," he broke into a sad smile, "Master, he... he doesn't _ indulge _ in slavery. He hires us as temporary workers and guards, then returns us to the trade."

"Then, why--"

"But some of us, he keeps," Khrue continued quickly, his words softening and his speech quickening, "if he likes you, he keeps you-- and when he keeps us-- he sees us as a little more... perishable. He only keeps the sturdy ones, after all. But he pays for any medicine we need. He's a good Master. Really. He only gets really angry when his reputation is concerned."

As Masrur boiled with just a little more anger, Hinahoho watched.

Hinahoho watched, eyeing the marks, the tattoos-- that burned into Khrue's shoulders, stretched across his partially uncovered back, and twined around his forehead.

Khrue noticed his gaze-- but bore with it. It was nothing new to be gawked at.

"What about... that guy?" Hinahoho spoke up carefully.

He didn't specify, he didn't gesture, but Khrue understood exactly who the blue-haired man referred to.

"He is..." Khrue clenched a fist around his knees, "Master calls him Toska."

_ Why were the generals even concerned? Why were they asking about Ayaan? Was this a trick? Was it considered prying? Did Khrue have the authority to care what they wanted to know? _

"Toska?" Hinahoho wondered.

"He has been Master's slave for... a great number of years," Khrue decided to say, because even he did not truly know for how long, "he is Master's prized possession."

Khrue supposed that was evident.

"Like Sir Masrur, he is a Fanalis," Khrue decided to say.

And this, Masrur's grip folded over the fountain's edge, shattering a crack into the structure.

Because even though they were the same-- even though finally,  _ finally _ , Masrur's found another one of his kind--

He bit back a tear.

He thought he knew the reality of the tragedy already. He saw what he thought was his own village, crumbled and dead and gone, and he was devastated.

Now he realized he was fortunate, that his buyer had been someone like Maader, who gave him love and care  _ even if it was false and just pretense _ .

"He's quite a tough one to unpack-- I don't think he even sees himself as a person anymore," Khrue told them, looking down, "but that's normal in the slave trade. It's all I can do to not be stern with him."

When Khrue stood up, neither of the generals stopped him.

"It would be wiser to not lay emotional investment into a slave-- they are, in the end, beyond help now," Khrue spoke, and raised his hands together in a curt bow, "if you would excuse me, I must take my leave."

It wasn't that they were beyond help.

It was simply the reality-- that no one tried to helped.

"The coronation of King Sinbad tomorrow-- I send my most honest words of congratulations," Khrue bid.

ー

"My Toska is mute," Master explained easily, "not precisely-- he simply doesn't speak anymore."

And the slave bowed his head in a trained apology, because his Master demanded it. King Sinbad was displeased, but he didn't let it show.

"Regarding the founding ceremony of Sindria tomorrow," Sinbad began, "it would be my pleasure if you could attend from the stands of the palace."

The stands of the palace-- those were the VIP locations, in fact. In another country it would be an unspoken title of nobility and royal recognition.

Surely, it was because he was wealthy.

At that, Master's eyes shone in brilliant joy, "words cannot express the honour, your highness!" he beamed, "surely, I do not deserve your gracious offer."

Sinbad's smile stiffened, "please accept it, sir, it is the least I may offer for your generous contributions to the creation of this country."

This conversation was a sickly show of false humility, and Sinbad was beginning to fell like he'd throw up.

But he smiled on, because he was a king and he would soon have to get used to these sort of dealings. He knew deep down that this man was a good man compared to some others, after all.

He would have to cope with worse of them once the country started progressing.

ー

Ayaan walked through the halls of the palace, holding carefully a dirtied rag his master asked him to toss out.

He looked down, and avoided the palace maids-- he was sure they wouldn't want to be near him either, after all.

But in the distance he sensed a gaze, and he turned on instinct. Perhaps it was a predator?

But his eyes met with a man in golden armor, and reddish brown hair.

One of the eight generals, he guessed, the one that wielded a spear. Beside him was a woman, a tall, blue-haired woman.

They both had their gazes fixed on Ayaan-- Ayaan looked away quickly, and continued on his way.

They were having a conversation.

Perhaps Ayaan's presence disrupted them.

  
  
  
  


Mystras and Pipirika watched the slave leave.

And somehow-- they thought of Kikiriku and Spartos.

Because they seemed almost-- the same age. Kikiriku was much younger, but Pipirika could tell they stood the same height.

_ And the thought of them being like Ayaan just hurt them inside. _

ー

Ayaan didn't like noise all that much. It reminded him of the cheering Colosseum.

But as he stood beside his Master the next day, engulfed by the ruckus and roar of the country of Sindria--

Quietly, quietly...

He listened to the cheers that eventually broke into hollers of anger,

then, into cries of agony.


	24. but in this end, hope begins.

"This dungeon... they call it Barbatos."

Muu stood before the humongous structure-- sunken caves, a hollow structure from the outside-- standing tall as a tower, yet covered by mounds of soil. The desert weather had buffetted its sides with crusted sand, corroding the walls.

"It's majorly different from the one behind the palace of Reim," Ignatius observed with a grimace, "Purson was a grand structure laden with gold and jewellery."

"I suppose it's hard to blame," Muu muttered, "you can only tell the strength of a dungeon once you're inside, perhaps..."

But they weren't going in.

Nothing that stupid, of course.

 

He stood before it, Lo'lo and Fakhir beside him.

They walked around it, circling around the mud and struggling for the driest sand as a foothold.

Then, they found it-- the fissure that ripped the edge of the world. A cliff that dropped so far down light couldn't reach, at an angle no one could imagine falling through.

"The Continental Rift," Muu said breathlessly, standing at the edge, his feet inching forward but his chest shrinking back in hesitation.

Lo'lo kept a grip on Fakhir's shoulder, and a firm hold on Muu's arm.

"I seriously don't think anyone's down there," Lo'lo said hopelessly, "even if Dad managed to escape, and ran this way--"

"But there's a chance, right?" Fakhir's response was strong, in contrast to his usual weak-hearted nature, "Beyond the rift-- y'know, dad used to say paradise was there."

"So you're telling me they're probably... there," Lo'lo repeated nervously, "but--"

"Dad also said no one could survive this fall," Muu corrected him, fingers closed in a fist.

Another hand wormed to Muu's shoulder, but clenched a little harder. Fakhir was tugging him back, fear clear in his features.

"I really think we should think at least a little long--"

"Look, if the both of you won't do it, I will," Muu returned with a little force, "if it means I can find  _ anyone _ there, I'll go."

"But Muu--"

"Just-!" Muu snapped, swiping away the hands that held him back. he clasps his shirt, desperation clear in his voice, "let me do something," his voice grew so weak-- maybe because he saw their faces, Lo'lo and Fakhir-- they looked so hurt that--

"I-"

He held strong, the tears brimming in his eyes, "I  can't live with myself like this," he hated how his voice faltered, "this is one thing I can do. So please-- just let me do it."

_ Before I hesitate again, and lose the chance at all. _

_ Before I falter and regret everything again. _

 

**Muu leaps into the Great Continental Rift-- but this time, Lo'lo and Fakhir doesn't stop him.**

 

ー

 

Muu ran.

If the climb wasn't a call for death, his blood pushed him on. Sheer determination, even through the aching heels, the pouring sweat, and the tears from his eyes.

His voice rips through the continent as he cries out for himself-- the only thing he feared was running into a wall at this pace, but he somehow believed he'd be fine going that way.

He was only a weak human, like Ignatius.

He was only a half blood, weaker than Lo'lo.

 

Yet-- for the sake of the blood that coursed through his veins, brimming red as the pride of the Fanalis-- he cut through the Continental Rift-- until his head gave out, his will was exhausted-- and a light of hope gleamed in the presence of the Magi that lived in the valley.

 

ー

 

"Do you remember, Fakhir?" 

Lo'lo sat down at the edge, his legs hung over the cliff.

Fakhir was beside him, legs crossed over each other nervously.

"Remember what?" Fakhir murmured nervously, eyes darting over to Ignatius who was setting up a tent with awfully workmanship.

He wasn't going to help, though.

"When we were young," Lo'lo looked down in reminisce-- a hand at his gouged out cheek-- he sighed. "you guys were talking about some Fanalis Knights or something."

And Fakhir flinched, the memory a burn in his heart.

"Y-Yeah," he managed, legs folding up, shifting uncomfortably, "it was my-- mine, and Ayaan's-- idea... really, it was just a child's dream. Actually, you were listening?"

Lo'lo snorted at that, "I get chores for one day and you guys think of fun things!" he whined childishly, "so I skipped and I was under the floor the whole time."

At that, Fakhir burst into a hearty laughter, "that's so like you!"

 

They settled into a silence-- but Lo'lo turned to Fakhir, a certain resolve in his eyes.

"What...?" Fakhir spoke up through the awkward.

And Lo'lo tried. "Y'see, Fakhir... I was thinking, even after all this... chaos, went down," he kept an eyes on Fakhir, a fist held before him in resolve, "we can still do it."

And Fakhir froze.

Fakhir averted his gaze, body shifting over to the side a little, "but, Lo'lo-- we're both-- we're still kids, y'know? In this extreme discrimination-- what _ can _ we do?" he argued weakly.

"It's  _ because _ it's after all this chaos went down," Lo'lo said with a sharper tone, "just think about it, Fakhir-- we have  _ power _ with Muu. And we have  _ strength _ with you."

"I'm not--"

"Don't you dare say you're not strong enough!" Lo'lo snapped.

Fakhir whirled around in surprise, hurt in his gaze.

"So what if you've lost so much? Don't give up!" Lo'lo took Fakhir's hands in his and gripped so tight, "so many of us are still out there, Fakhir. So many--  _ Ayaan's _ out there, too."

At the name, Fakhir shrank back, a strangled gasp leaving his lips.

"It's different from when we were alone-- it's different from when Muu was alone, too," Lo'lo began, "you know it best, don't you? That things always work out better when you two are together! Muu has what you don't, you have what he doesn't. Right?"

Fakhir bit his lip, as if he was in agony-- 

"Don't make it sound so easy!" he didn't struggle away, but his voice broke out in a sort of sob, "I-- you know, Lo'lo-- I'm-- I've--"

 

_ I no longer deserve to be a man that liberates others. _

_ Not when I've been a man that held the whip to confine them. _

 

And Lo'lo shot back this time, the understanding flashing across him so hard. He couldn't find a new word to say to the other.

 

**_"Then, I'll do it."_ **

They snap toward the darkness of the rift.

In a flash of light, magic forms beside them, gathering Rukh in a visible orb of glow. 

Fakhir and Lo'lo stood up, surprise leaving their voices in their throats-- as a thread of shine spins from the depths of the Continental Rift. It drifts like a magic carpet, and as it breaks into ground beside them, Muu emerges from it, as if spat out from a monster that devoured him.

Muu falls forward, but Fakhir scrambles up to catch him, and Lo'lo drag them back before they slip back into the fissure.

"Muu?"

Fakhir calls weakly, his heart in a rapid crescendo at the mere sight-- Muu's hair was always loose, but never this dishevelled. His body was cold and grimy, mud staining bits-- friction burns, muscle strains, his feet were scratched up so bad it was damp and dried bright red. HIs clothes were torn, unnecessary weight shorn off and lost in the valley.

"Muu, say something," he calls again, arms wrapped tightly around his limp form.

"What... was that?" Lo'lo pulls his gaze back to the rift-- the yellow wave was gone as fast as it came-- did it sent Muu back? or was it...

"I'm-" Muu chokes out a weak response, "I'm fine."

But that one sound filled Fakhir with so much relief, he crumbled and Lo'lo dove down to catch them before a nasty fall.

"That aside--" Muu pulled himself away from the hug that he honestly would've liked to enjoy a little longer, stumbled backward, but ended up falling on his back as if he'd forgotten how feet worked anymore, or how walking on two feet was like anymore--

Fakhir and Lo'lo dropped down beside him, concerned.

"Seriously, I'm fine, just tired," he skimmed through his words, a hand brushing back his hair-- but the panic and overwhelmed gaze in his eyes didn't leave him yet.

He closed them, breathed in, and turned to Fakhir.

"Lo'lo's right," Muu put a hand on Fakhir's shoulder, forcing himself into a grin he hoped was reassuring, "things are different when we're together... right?"

A breath later, Lo'lo realizes, "you heard us?"

Muu closed his fist tight, and shook the knowledge of the rift away from his head. "We can't do anything about what we've lost or what we've done-- but we can do something from now on."

Fakhir shuddered, unconvinced.

"I've wasted time in luxury," Muu muttered regretfully, "Lo'lo failed our Dads... and Fakhir--" he stopped there. "Hey, you two--" he picks up with a smile, "why don't we spend the rest of our lives-- to make up for everything?"

 

And in those words, something washed over. 

Something changed in the three of them-- something a little deeper, yet not different at all, from a bond of undeniable trust and brotherhood.

As Fakhir broke into tears not for the first time at all, Lo'lo teases him, and Muu laughs. They bicker happily-- and for a second, nothing could get in the way of them.

Muu's fist is taken by Lo'lo's-- then, Fakhir wraps his hands around them.

 

But Ignatius could tell-- that the animosity, the anger, the despair that Muu was bound in when they set off-- they were gone. 

Muu was back to the cheerful, charismatic and prideful royalty he boasted to be. He was back to the young boy Scheherazade loved.

Ignatius couldn't help but cry in joy at the sight of it.

 

"Let's go," Muu's tone was soft-- yet, not a single bit less determined than before.

"...to Reim."


	25. almost, almost.

_ "Toska!" _

Something was oddly familiar with the way everyone was screaming. Everyone was running over each other, screaming so loud no one's voice could be heard, and yet there's always the sound of something slicing through flesh and then a woman's shriek breaks through the air.

Things were shoved aside, the happy street carts were capsized and turned over, all of the colourful merchandise now on the ground, dirtied, broken, and no one cared.

Ayaan stood in the middle of this, and the way people just crashed into him as if they  _ wanted  _ to make him fall, then someone screamed at him to  _ fuck off _ or something, he didn't really move to obey because he's not sure what that means to begin with.

 

His eyes whirled through the crowd, blurring past every and anything in the cacophony as he shrank out of the noise, coming to focus as he finds his Master in the crowd.

Ayaan wasn't sure what led to what anymore. He remembered his Master screaming accusations, angered. King Sinbad was talking, but Ayaan wasn't particularly eloquent enough to register it.

He was pretty confident he didn't need to know.

It wouldn't matter if he knew or not.

He noticed Khrue sinking into a sort of dread, his face warping into fear much like what Ayaan had seen before in his now-dead targets. 

_ Oh. _

_ Was Khrue a prey now? _

_ Is Ayaan too? _

_ Is that what's happening now? All of a sudden we're all prey so everyone's running?  _

Ayaan hummed, deciding that was it because now it made sense why everyone looked so awful. He still couldn't understand why this scene seemed familiar to him though.

This would be Ayaan's first time being prey. At least, he thinks so.

Suddenly his Master was running, and Khrue called out to him.  _ "Toska _ , _ " _ now the only name Ayaan knew to respond to.  _ (Because, if he didn't respond Master would get angry.) _

Ayaan spun around his heel without another moment of thought, feet taking him to his senior slave's side.

_ "Stay with Master," _ Khrue's orders were easy to understand. They always were, Khrue was nice like that.

Ayaan scanned the crowd for Master again, finding him near the front with not a slave in sight-- only he and Khrue were here, after all-- the rest were waiting in the ship.

Ah, Master was heading in the direction of the ship, and the crowd was shoving him quickly in that direction. Ayaan and Khrue were being shoved back by a slightly different crowd.

Ayaan wasn't about to defy his newest orders, (maybe Khrue told him to do it because he knew Ayaan could catch up to Master even in this situation), and thus, leaping onto Khrue's shoulder, he boosted himself forward, stepping across the irritable cluster of panic, and landed cleanly behind his Master, to follow him onto his escape.

He doesn't say anything, but Master knows he's there.

 

He found himself kicking down even _ civilians _ because they stood in his Master's way. On Master's orders, of course.

His foot caved in on a man's face, and the warm grimy blood spurted much too far for comfort. He cringes, and something inside him sinks in confusion. And dread, maybe.

The last time he'd had to fight like this was in the Colosseum. He was told to beat up these little wimps that didn't fight back, who were all screaming, like these ones, and he did, and at the end of it they all cheered,  _ beast _ .

**_Beast._ **

He wasn't sure if he liked to remember his time in that yellow town.

 

_ "Move aside! Clear the road!" _

His Master's frantic yelling grew louder. They were to head to the port, and Master demanded a clear route for him and his servants. And no one was really listening, because in the noise, not even Master's yelling could be heard.

Ayaan was the only one that obeyed that order.

Ayaan leaped onto the ship, and threw down the stepladder for his Master to come onboard. Without another moment's rest, he swung his legs across the edge and kicked at an intruding man who tried to sneak on the boat, and flung down a few into the sea, howling at them in hostility.

When some tried to snag the stepladder, Ayaan leaped down and broke the man's nose, then shattered his wrist.

 

_ "Let us onboard! Save us! Share your ship! Help with the evacuation!" _

The chaos flooded his ears, ringing irritatingly at it all, so much he wanted to scream at them to  _ be quiet _ because his Master was too busy for this many guests now.

 

Noisy. 

The Colosseum had rhythmical, mad cheers that made him excited and made his blood boil with energy, no many how sickening that energy was fueled.

But this noise was painful to hear. The screaming of some man that came like an accusation, telling him something about helping and blaming Master as selfish. There are children crying, and there's a vomit-inducing silence too, from those laying down in their own red gush and no longer able to move.

It hurt his ears. He closed his eyes but he can hear it all the more he tried not to. Everything came up in so much more detail than he'd like to bear. 

It was the sound of  _ war  _ and  _ massacre  _ and  _ death _ and _ despair _ .

**Why did this seem so familiar to him?**

_ Enough to make his chest boil with an itch that made his eyes water and his throat want to scream out in a sound he knows he doesn't want to make? _

It made his fingers tremble and his will weaken.

**He hated this noise.**

It reminded him of things he didn't remember.

  
  


Khrue swung his blade toward the strings that bound their ship to shore, and the sails unfurled, the ship began to drift out into sea.

 

His Master rounded to the bow, and looked over the deck, "make sure all slaves are present on this ship. I cannot afford to lose any after this  _ horrid _ investment failure."

His words were a curse, filled with spite. 

As usual, Ayaan understood none of the terminology, but Khrue bowed with understanding, and rushed off to obey. 

Ayaan's job wasn't to understand. It was to follow and listen. So no one ever explained anything to him, and he didn't have the right to ask questions.

"Toska!" Master called again, the boy flinched out a sharp nod, "you are to protect me, understood?"

Ayaan didn't know why Master was reminding him of this. (Wasn't that common sense? Ayaan's job had, from beginning to the end, been to protect and be by his side.) But he saw in Master the eyes of horrified, horrified prey, and Ayaan's stoic eyes only watched in curiosity as he was forced to look directly into them.

He was usually never allowed to look directly into Master's eyes.

 

Then, Ayaan was looking behind Master's eyes, behind him-- to the sunken blue sky, gray cloud whirling into a dusk whorl.

He watched it bloom apart for a great yellow and red light, rippling apart to make way for what could only be a meteor, directly overhead.

Ayaan saw it, but who could blame him for not knowing how to respond to it?

  
  


When the ship they're on is crushed to pieces, blown to shreds by a blast of what could only be Magic or a Djinn, 

everything just goes silent.


	26. sink, sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I uh, am very bad at interaction so idk, is this my first AN here? Hi, to whoever is reading this, I hope you're enjoying it thus far! 
> 
> Please take note that Fakhir's side of the story takes place a little further in the future than where Ayaan is right now. From the chapter before, at the Rift, maybe many months or even years have passed. This does not mean the same amount of time has passed for Ayaan (who is still in 'the fall of sindria' timeline at the moment). This arc tells two stories simultaneously but they do not occur in the same time frame. 

 

"Boss!! Lo'lo's gonna kill me!"

 

For an incredibly big guy (even among the Fanalis Corps), Yaqut was such a wimp. 

One could argue that Fakhir was small for his age. Well, seeing that Fakhir was fatally malnourished until about a while ago, he was perhaps a size smaller than Muu now. Except that Muu was considered a  _ midget _ to the rest of them.

 

He folded his arms, considering the presence of the two insanely large men surrounding him. One was glaring murderously, gnawing at the air in a rather beastly threat (that exposed jaw scar only helped him look so much more horrifying, no offense Lo'lo) at the other, who was making rather pitiful whimpering sounds (like a kicked little puppy, have some  _ pride _ dammit).

He wanted to pause this current situation. His mind was reeling, trying to  _ understand _ what was going on because his head was currently occupied with a certain diplomatic fiasco and he did  _ not  _ have time for this right now.

 

"You  _ definitely _ lost that one on purpose, Yaqut! I demand a rematch! NOW!"

"I did  _ not!! _ so yeah, I was moving strangely, bUT-"

"REMATCH!"

"Could you at least listen?!"

 

Fakhir, shifting uncomfortably in his armor, sighed.

He wore his golden set of armor on one arm and shoulder, his abdomen, and across the rest of his front. A roman white toga slung casually across any exposed side, and he slung a loose strand over his head, swiping across his rather choppily trimmed hair in exasperation.

 

"Both of you," Fakhir groaned.

" _ HE  _ started it!!" they echoed in unison.

 

"Boss, Lo'lo's being a big meany!" Yaqut's voice was high and sarcastic, hiding behind the much smaller form, "he's  _ bullying _ me!"

" _ Boss, _ " Lo'lo tried not to wince at the absolutely menacing glare Fakhir shot his way at the sudden title calling, "Yaqut's being a _ cheater _ ! He's  _ mocking _ me and my pride!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!!'

"Did not!"

"Did too!!"

 

Fakhir watched the banter hilariously echo through the halls, and miserably turned to the ceiling in  _ two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, fuck this _ \--

"That's it." He threw his papers into the air. Yeah, the entire stack. 

"I'm done," he decided, not specifying, then smiled the possibly most horrifying smile ever, "both of you," he cracked his knuckles and gritted his teeth, jaw clenching sternly as his tone deepened to a hollow hiss.

"Meet me in the arena.  **Now** ."

 

ー

 

"Violence isn't the answer, Fakhir!" Muu sighed, absolutely devastated. 

"I see no problem," Fakhir brooded in the corner of the room, being told to stay there as Ignatius and other nurses patched up the wounds of the two Fanalis that honestly looked shellshocked. "I fixed their idiotic quarreling, didn't I?"

"Gave them a concussion is what you did," Muu grumbled, leaning closer for his lecture, jabbing a thumb in their direction, "look at them, they've got trauma now."

 

"I'm sorry, Yaqut," Lo'lo whispered so honestly and so fearfully, Muu cringed because  _ geezus he hasn't heard that since Myron nearly killed him for walking in on her changing _ .

"I promise I'll never underestimate myself ever again," Yaqut whispered back, eyes looked wide and horrified on the ground and, "I'll never be negative again I promise-"

 

"Boss, you broke them."

"I fixed their attitudes," Fakhir corrected sharply.

 

ー

 

"Forgive him, won't you?"

 

Yaqut looked up when Lo'lo told him that. 

"If you mean the Boss, I'm not particularly angry or anything--"

 

Fakhir had gone back to Scheherazade's abode with Muu, because apparently they had business to deal with. 

Lo'lo slumped back against the wall, and somehow, the smile that graced his face was much gentler than anything he'd ever seen before.

"Fakhir's trying his best, y'know?" he suggested, and his voice had never sounded as fond as it was now, "isn't it amazing how far we've already come in these few months?"

 

And Yaqut paused, considering. Lifting his hands to his face, he observed the golden gauntlets on his wrists, and his gaze softened as he remembered the shackles that used to tear so harshly at that very same part of skin.

Just a dozen of weeks ago he was liberated.

And it was through the careful grasping of Muu,  _ with some confident, uncomfortably gentle handling from Fakhir,  _ that made them claw their ways out of the darkness. Leading the Fanalis Corps as their head, Fakhir always looked stronger than any other, and all the other Fanalis admired him greatly.

Muu was always there for them. Fakhir will always wait for them.

 

Yaqut's dreamed of this army. A place where Fanalis were respected and a place they were family and belonged. He can never hate Fakhir, because he made it a reality.

 

"One day, I want to help him, too," Lo'lo admitted. "He's done a lot that I could never do. With Muu of course, but watching them come this far--"

Yaqut realized he didn't really know much about his Boss.

 

"I wish he'd put down that strong farce soon," Lo'lo muttered honestly, for only a volume Yaqut could hear, "because I can see he's tearing himself down inside and I'm  _ worried _ ."

 

ー

That very same night, Fakhir tore abruptly away from a nightmare, screaming as he woke.

Perhaps half the castle was startled awake and there was disorder in the palace so strong it took a while to calm and too much chaos to care about-- but to this day, Yaqut could recall.

He remembered seeing that strong leader, the back that he thought would never ever _ bend _ \-- he remembered so clearly how it  _ crumbled _ , and clung so tightly to Muu, shivering so brokenly he still doubted if that was the right person at all.

 

He remembered the strangled, choked sounds the man made.

And he also heard the one name he cried out over and over again, the name that Lo'lo later told them it was the Boss' missing younger brother. One they've been searching for for  _ years _ since, since even  _ before _ the war-- and yet, nothing, no signs at all.

Yaqut couldn't count how many times he wished to go over and just- just  _ help him _ , he didn't even know how. Yaqut didn't know how to comfort people.

 

Fakhir seemed so strong.

Fakhir always seemed to be there for them.

 

It was that moment that Yaqut realized.

If Fakhir was always there for everyone, that meant no one was ever there for  _ him _ .

  
  


Yaqut closed his fists tight and determined, and in his mind he promised himself, whispering his thoughts to his younger sister Razol while he could.

They were going to plan him a welcome home party when they returned from their newest assignment to Kai. And there, they were going to shower him with so much joy and presents and  _ love _ that, if only a moment they want to see him smile so happily he forgets everything else.

Fakhir deserved that, after all he did for them.

That was the plan.

  
  


_ That was the plan that didn't happen. _


	27. on the carriage they head forward.

"In fifteen minutes, we'll enter the border of Magnostadt."

Three people sat in the carriage, led by a Reim Horseman.

Fakhir led the team, map sprawled over the center of the carriage. He moved his finger to the mark of the borders of the Kou Empire (so far into the east), and then moved over the the lines between Reim and Magnostadt.

"As of the moment we are unsure of the actions this newly formed country of Magnostadt will take against us, thus the moment we meet any sort of conflict, our orders are to stand down and retreat."

"So our plan is to avoid conflict and run away?" Muu grimaced, not liking the cowardly implications.

"Sometimes, strength is found in knowing when to use it," Fakhir quoted, possibly from his father, "as you can see, I didn't bring my Francesca Axes and Muu wasn't permitted to bring his swords."

"As if everyone didn't already know our fists are stronger than a measly weapon," Muu grumbled, unheard.

Lo'lo groaned, "can't we just take another route? Those...  _ magicians _ really hate us, don't they?"

"They see us as a  _ potential threat _ ," Muu was quick to correct him, "it's to be expected, because the Fanalis Corps must look like an army for war to them."

"Or a bunch of golden geese up for dishing," Lo'lo muttered right back, but this time, aside from a sharp glare from Muu, he receives no retort.

Fakhir sighed heavily, brushing aside a loose ornament from his clothing and reaching down to point again-- "it would either be this or the sea route full of monsters, and you  _ know _ we're all terrible at sea, sea creatures or not. The Imuchakk have never been friendly to anyone but madman Sinbad."

" _ Dungeon Conqueror  _ Sinbad," Muu corrected. 

"I  _ know  _ already, you're just nagging at this point," Lo'lo scrunched up his face in a sort of baby whine, sharply shooting aside in annoyance, "rather than risk making an enemy of the only clan that can rival the Fanalis, we oughta sneak around the borders of Magnostadt while their country still can't rile up for another war, right? And don't cause any trouble along the way."

Fakhir mourned, "I'm not sure if Lo'lo is a suitable member of the 'let's not cause any trouble along the way' team..." 

"The country of Magnostadt is still unstable," with a resigned breath, Muu continued, "the civil war ended, but in its struggle to reform, bandits and slave traders flourish near its borders. The King won't bother with any scuffle that happens yet, because they're much more busy with a lot of other things at the moment. It works to our advantage, but it also means our lives are at risk."

"If we're  _ expecting _ company, couldn't we have brought more of us?"

"You want us to bring an  _ army _ to a diplomatic discussion??"

"I didn't say that!"

"A Fanalis is the strength of ten men!"

"We couldn't have at least taken Mr Iggy with us? He has that King's Vessel thing!"

"Both of you, be  **_quiet_ ** _!!" _

 

Muu and Lo'lo's mouths slammed right shut at the sudden call. Fakhir's foot was raised so he was more in a crouch than sitting down.

A finger held to his lips in a universal note of silence, Fakhir's eyes were stern as he looked around the carriage. Then, without orders, the carriage trailed to a stop.

Not even the whinny of a horse was heard. No confused horseman, nothing.

 

The windows of the carriage were obscured by curtains.

One drifted in the wind. 

Fakhir leaped, and charged straight through the walls of the carriage, foot landing sharply on the man's chest. With a sharp spin, he kicked off the man's helmet, hooked his weapon out of his hands. Planting his foot on the man's shoulder, he let gravity weigh them to the ground before firmly gauging his heel on the man's arm.

 

The man's fearful yells fell on deaf ears, and Fakhir only looked around almost reverently, at the crowd of civilian-looking bandits that surrounded them on all sides.

Squinting, he could recognize a white fog drifting in the air around them, a huge perimeter across the area of forest they were in.

Perhaps that was what obscured their noses.

He finds himself breathing through his mouth-- because nothing went through his sinuses, not even air. Was this a form of poison? Or a numbing agent for beasts?

They each held a weapon-- not quite a sword, a  _ baton _ , and pointing it (clearly hostile) at the Fanalis that now faced them.

"We mean no harm," Fakhir offered as gently as he could, hands raised beside his face in a form of surrender, "nor do we hold anything of value to steal."

The golden gauntlets shining on his wrists said otherwise.

"You're from another country," the man spoke, almost hauntingly, hands trembling so fearfully as he held his baton with both hands, "that means you're an enemy."

"We won't let you take our country again,"

"You came to invade again, didn't you?"

"The Magicians will save us this time!"

 

Fakhir bit down, fists clenching in almost rage, because these people were lucid, war-stricken, traumatised. They wouldn't listen to reason.

Muu and Lo'lo lay back in the carriage, hiding in the shadows. If they knew he had more company, it might mean they'd attack sooner than later.

Now Fakhir had to make sure they  _ won't  _ attack them.

The fact that they were suited up in armor-- maybe he could change that, but he knew that any sudden movements will alarm the bandits.

"We will turn back," he promised-- fuck, Muu's better at this negotiation bullshit, "we will leave with you everything we have that is of value and we will not touch your country."

Fakhir bit his lip when he realized the horseman was gone. Captured at best, killed at worst. But gone without even being able to make a sound. The horses were released.

They would have to run.

 

"You lie!" His gaze flinched to the one that yelled-- a black-haired man, thin, frantic, fearful, "I've heard of your kind-- you're monsters! All of you! You hate anyone not your race, you came in to our country to kill us all because we're weakened now!"

_ He's panicking _ , Fakhir realized. _ Words won't get through to him _ . He needed another method.

The man's hand was so shaky on the button that activated that baton and whatever it was supposed to do. Fakhir wasn't looking forward to finding out.

It was a mistake to not keep eye contact.

The next thing Fakhir knew, a humongous orb of fire conjured in the airspace, twisting in the breach of air-- and was shooting forward his way.

That's it.

"We're going!" he hollered, instincts dropping him to his hands, narrowly dodging the fireball as it crashed into the wooden carriage, crackling and bursting into flames not a second later.

Muu and Lo'lo punch through the roof of the carriage, making their presences known as they considered the situation.

"Noses are blocked. Horseman's dead," and Fakhir reminded them, in a lower tone, "stick to the plan."

"Yes, sir!"

Preceding the order, the two charged into the forest, heading in two different directions. Fakhir stayed before the burning carriage, foot still planted firmly on a Magnostadt bandit, not intending on letting him go just yet.

 

"They're escaping!"

"No, planning an ambush!"

"One of them is heading for the village!"

"After them!"

 

_ Don't cause any trouble on the way _ , somehow, Fakhir remembered that.  _ Looks like I'm not a suitable member of the 'let's not cause trouble' team either, _ his lips twitched upward in amusement.

Before any of the bandits can split their forces, Fakhir raised his head to the heavens and  _ roared _ .


	28. through the rubble he screams.

Ayaan wasn’t too sure what was going on.

He remembered the blast, the explosion, the searing heat.

He remembered how everything shuddered and trembled as something inside him churned in a twisted--  _ dread _ , as the meteor-like blast crashed straight through the ship, then was swallowed into the ocean where boiling fire met icy waters.

It was barely a second later when a humongous gas bubble ruptured, and the world was shredded into pieces.

Blinding bright black, burning everything in sight. The floor fissured and the ship’s deck shattered into a split jaw, swallowing anyone too slow into the boiling waters of the sea.

Ayaan hung at the Mast, until it splintered into innumerable pieces. He heard a crackle, and looked up briefly to leap away, dodging the crow’s nest as it crunched and came loose.

Someone yelled for  _ Toska _ . 

He swirled around to respond, but the jaw of the sea holed open under him.

The ground split, and his instincts drove him upward. (Away from the water. Water, bad, he hated, water--  _ Khrue said the wound on my hand would get infected,  _ right?) he clawed his way to get a grip on some edge, somersaulted upward, until he realized the only thing surrounding him was the fire that bobbed on driftwood.

 

Where was the ship?

Without a place to land, he speared into the surface of the sea.

 

Looking up, he registered another red burning stone embedding into the waters. It sank toward him, and the tides failed to cooperate. The waters thick as a bulky curtain, he kicked against the empty bottom he couldn’t see; flailed sloppily, (moving as rapidly as he could but was in reality much too sloth-like and dragging,) almost too meaninglessly grinding against the dark blue jelly he was trapped in. 

He barely managed to turn his back around before acidic heat tore the skin of his back open. His mouth wrenched open, a howl vomitted the air out of his lungs.

Ayaan stopped trying to move. No, he stopped being able to move.

His fingers stilled against the water that no longer felt tangible. He ragdolled against the driftwood that smacked him aside, and ripped red out of his skin. 

He couldn’t move. Only pain was present, yet even that was numbing. He wasn’t breathing, he didn’t remember how to anymore. 

In that moment, all he thought about was how dark and blurry everything was, confused, suddenly wondering where he was and what he was doing, why he did anything he did-- how did he end up here again?

He sees his hands limp before him, but they don’t feel like his. He didn’t feel them. He didn’t feel his hands nor his feet nor his legs nor his shoulders nor his head nor his nose nor his ears--  _ ear, _ nor his lips nor his heart. 

The burning heat against icy cold, a bubble burped into existence. Ayaan watched it as it expanded to a size he swore was bigger than his body-- then almost too promptly, it erupted.

For a moment, Ayaan was glad it was brighter now. Then the next moment, the light was gone.

ー

And even then, Ayaan sees.

Ayaan found himself again in the darkness of his mind, in his mindscape hoarded by dark butterflies and one weeping woman.

_ Does he come here each time he almost dies? _

Nothing ever answered his questions, so this time he decided to step forward and see what would happen. He was scared of taking initiative and acting without orders, but curiosity got the best of him and he didn’t think it through twice.

The lady was still there, nestled in the core of the furious butterflies that were so roughly whipping around her-- it was like they were threatening to eat her alive.

The lady seemed to glow brightly, her hair a soft brown, long and sprawled around her, tangled and clumped hopelessly. Ayaan couldn’t see much of her, but he could see her face was red and swollen with tears, her limbs bruised purple and yellow and green and ugly, scarred in so many different places.

She held a single yellow butterfly to her chest, and she begged. Begged, so desperately,

_ “Please don’t break.” _

 

Ayaan stood before her and he wasn’t too sure what to say.

So he crouched down, leaned in, and tried to see her better. She smelled of the forest, crystal gems, and rain. She felt like desire and longing, and her tears seemed to him out of love.

_ He’s not sure what any of that means. _

He reached out, because she hadn’t noticed him. 

He wiped away her tears, and cradled her face, leaning in so their foreheads touched. He doesn’t say anything, but she raised her head and reached an arm around him, pulling him closer, closer to the butterfly so they could protect it together.

_ “I’m sorry,” _ she choked out in sobs, _ “I’m so sorry, Ayaan.” _

Ayaan woke up.

ー

**_“Toska!”_ **

He snapped awake, alarmed and throwing himself forward to throw up a pained lungful of water, coughing and hacking up strongly.

“Get a grip already!” Khrue was frantic, his tone sharp and back into the alto of a slave driver, “we don’t have time to wait on you!”

Ayaan abruptly remembered where he was, and leapt to his feet. 

In a flash, the formerly boisterous and flourishing port city was gone. His surroundings were dominated by bodies and ashes, a thickening stench of smoke, a cacophony of explosions and screams.

They were hidden behind a decent cliff, out of the panic but not quite out of harm’s way, but at least they were alone and secluded from most of the madness. The trees around them, although mostly seared and falling apart, provided measly shelter.

A flower by his feet was crushed.

“We are leaving!” his Master ordered. And he looked like a wreck-- usually gelled hair sprawled in a mess, eyes wide in horror and a haunted look marring his face. 

His voice was quick and piercing, his breath was quick as if he was about to hyperventilate. Soot smeared his cheek, and his clothing, the heaviest articles shorn off, the rest was drenched and torn in places, dusty. 

“I- I... I don’t know how we will go now, but you, no, both of you, Both of you must find a way-- just do it! Find a way to get me out of here, even if it’s just myself!”

He grabbed Khrue by the hair, tugging him forward roughly, “if you fail neither of you will go unpunished. You  _ hear me??” _

“Y-Yes, sir,” Khrue stumbled, breath hitching and a twisted ankle eliciting a groan as he was thrown aside roughly. He collapsed on the ground, but shifted into a bow.

**“Hurry up!!”**

Ayaan flinched, and a familiar fear breathes through him, and he swirls his gaze to Khrue, confused and desperate for  _ help _ . He’d never gotten such an order before, so he was confused. So scared of not obeying orders, but unsure how even to obey this one.

“I will secure a boat.”

Somehow, Khrue sounded composed. Forcefully composed, as if the stress of the situation barely affected him. Khrue held his wounded shoulder, and his eyes scrutinized Ayaan for a long moment.

“There should be some left over, or I can steal one. Toska will stay with master while--”

Ayaan looked up, confused by the sudden pause.

Khrue raised his head, as if he was seeing something no one else could-- his eyes widened in horror as he abruptly realized  _ what _ he was watching come down.

“Toska, take Master and run!”

Not asking where or why, Ayaan leaped forward, scooped up his master in his arms, and ran. Right on cue, an enormous boulder plunged into the crevice they were in.

Khrue was still under it.

But while Ayaan realized that, his knees buckled from a leg injury he hadn’t noticed before. Slipping from the rocks, an overcast shadow made him realize that  _ another _ piece of debris was tumbling their way.

He didn’t respond first.

With a scream, Master shoved him away, escaping his grasp and being flung airborne as a result-- 

Ayaan saw his Master for only a moment longer before the avalanche or rocks and trees swallowed him and deep red sprayed in his direction.

“Toska!”

Ayaan felt a body throw itself over him, arms pulling him close-- then the sand and ground hung over their heads and everything else was pitch black.


	29. and he was too blind to see.

“Muu!”

The man flipped around, fists gripped tight and poised for battle, bristling in alarm. Hackles rose and he kept his eyes in the direction of the voice, trying to determine if it was hostile.

 

“Woah, woah! Calm down, just me.”

 

Muu’s eyes narrowed skeptically, “you don’t smell like you,” he challenged, “you reek of too much blood.”

“Hey, I volunteered to take stalling duty, you can’t judge me when I end up killing them all,” Fakhir groaned, stepping into the moonlight so Muu could get a better look. His hands were raised, his clothes (gold plate armor, top half, gone) in a mess and drenched in red fluid.

 

Muu sighed, relieved. He lowered his hostile poise, and stepped forward with a clean rag to at least wipe the most of it out of the man’s face.

“You’ll attract too much attention as you are. How did you find me?”

Fakhir chuckled, “found you on the way to the river, was gonna clean myself out. But nevermind me, you’ve been walking under the light for a while.”

Muu raised an eyebrow, “under the--”

Fakhir pulled the other into a rough shoulder hug, dragging him deeper into the woods, “didn’t Uncle Khalil teach us this? If you can see where you’re going, you’re in the moonlight. You’re super easy to spot from afar if you do that.”

 

And Muu freezes, appalled. “You  _ never _ remember classes.”

“I’m a  _ practical _ kinda person,” he sneered.

They drifted to a quieter spot and Fakhir leaned against a tree, breathing out in relief. He was exhausted, Muu guessed, after all it’s taking the whole day for Muu to barely scrounge out of Magnostadt territory. They were trailing at Reim’s corners now.

He was surprised Fakhir even managed to catch up so quickly. (Maybe it’s because he’s a pure blood, he’s got more stamina and strength.) He wondered if Lo’lo made it back to the palace already to report.

 

“That’s it,” Fakhir sighed, “I’m spent. Let’s spend the night out here, Muu!”

And Muu  _ gawked _ . “Don’t be ridiculous, we need to get back pronto!”

“Oh come  _ on, _ we’re  _ Fanalis _ we can handle one night outside without Mommy Schehe worrying about us.”

“That’s  _ Lady Scheherazade  _ for you and  _ show her some respect!” _

 

When Fakhir burst into some hearty laughter, Muu felt his heart sink at the sight.

Fakhir never did well in nighttimes. If it wasn’t a nightmare, it was a memory. It was paranoia and anxiety and Fakhir rarely if ever slept soundly.

They’ve spent years searching. 

They’ve spent so long liberating slaves, yet they never found Ayaan again. Muu knew how much it broke Myron, but both of them knew it was nothing compared to how it weakened Fakhir.

Fakhir ate less. Had temperaments. Became weak. Hesitated in battle. Lost many skills.

He was the boss and his mask was flawless to the Fanalis Corps. Everyone respected Fakhir as the head of the army and Fakhir was a splendid example of a supreme leader.

Yet, the more Fakhir joked around with everyone, the more he laughed, the more Muu wanted to cry at the sight.

Because he knew none of that joy was real.

 

All of this was part of some faulty coping mechanism Fakhir constructed over the years, pretending to be alright, prolonging his body functions, keeping himself upright in the vain hope that was slowly slipping further and further away.

Everyone would tell him to give up already.

Muu wouldn’t.

 

“Fakhir,” 

Fakhir raised his head at the sudden low tone Muu used. That was a sign of a serious, non-joking conversation, and Fakhir raised a brow at that.

“I’m thinking we should conquer another dungeon.” Muu brought a sort of confidence to his posture, “not like the one with Ignatius, when we brought the whole army with us-- let’s go, just us two.”

Fakhir snorts, “just us two? Is this a promise for a double suicide?”

“C’mon,” Muu spread his arms out, then knocked a fist against his chest and held it out for a fistbump, “the both of us can do  _ anything _ together, right?”

Fakhir stared at the hand for a long, pensive moment, and instead of knocking his fist with his, Fakhir wrapped a bloody palm around it, and smiled.

An actual, genuine smile.

“Remember the dungeon near the rift?” he suggested, his tone light and almost sleepy, “Barbatos. Let’s conquer Barbatos, Muu.”

Muu loved the idea, lunging forward almost excitedly, “tomorrow, then! Or after all this is settled,” he chuckled bashfully, rubbing the back of his head, “hey, Fakhir… would you take the King Vessel?”

And Fakhir perked up, “me?”

Muu beamed, “of course!” he assured him, “you’re our leader.”

“But,” and the mask was cracking, (Fakhir’s weak side, his hesitant eyes, his meek expressions, his softened face, his lack of self confidence,) “but I’m…”

“Do it for me, Fakhir,” Muu takes Fakhir’s hand in his, not bothered by the blood that was still damp around his fingers, “I want to be your Household. I want you to be my King, Fakhir.”

 

And both of them knew it wasn’t just that.

Fakhir’s long realized that Muu was worried for him. For his mentality. For his fragility.

Maybe Muu wanted to give Fakhir a boost of confidence, so Fakhir would know just how much he was  _ needed _ here, and how much everyone  _ needed him _ , and how they’d always support and help him through any and everything.

Fakhir wanted to cry.

He wanted to cry because he was  _ loved _ .

 

“No,” Fakhir decides, a pained smile breaking through his mask, tears falling in desperation, “I’m not the King, Muu.”

“You--”

“No!” Fakhir interrupted sharply, “Muu… you don’t see it yourself-- but the leader everyone looks up to-- the cornerstone everyone leans on-- it’s not me, Muu, It’s  _ you _ .”

And Muu stopped, surprised.

“You care for everyone. You’re empathetic, you’re powerful, and everything you do is meaningful and full of  _ love _ ,” Fakhir cried into Muu’s fist, “if there’s anyone worthy of being the King, it’s you, Muu. You’re  _ my _ King, not the other way around. You’re  _ our _ King, Muu.”

Something in Muu breaks.

“You,” his voice was like a whimper of disbelief as he sharply turned away, “you can’t be serious, Fakhir. I’m a  _ half-blood _ , I’m just a weak halfbreed. I’m weaker than everyone else no matter how you cut it. I’m--”

“It doesn’t matter!” Fakhir is  _ angry,  _ wholeheartedly angry  _ for _ him, “something like that doesn’t matter to  _ any of us,  _ Muu, because  _ you saved us _ . You’re the one that saved us all and gave us a place to be, you’re the one that picked us all up and gave us the love and care we needed. It’s you, Muu. It has to be you.”

When did this conversation turn into Fakhir consoling Muu?

Muu’s eyes met with Fakhir’s-- (determined, resolved, firm, no doubt,) and he faltered, actually  _ believing _ . 

“Then, promise me, Fakhir,” Muu whispered back when he finally managed to compose himself, “that you’ll be my Household.”

Muu believed that the smile Fakhir showed him that day was a real, honest smile. The tears that streaked down their cheeks as they lean their foreheads into each other, indulging in the promise.

 

Muu wondered when Fakhir became so vital to him. When did Fakhir stop being a best friend and start becoming a partner? When did they become so crucial to each other that they couldn’t go without the other, that they truly thought they completed each other?

Deep inside, Muu also wondered when this emotion became something so different. Something so desirable and so sweet they wouldn’t believe they’d ever think of it. Something a little embarrassing but so undeniably mutual they could only laugh as their eyes met and they synchronously  _ understood _ .

Perhaps, if they were a little less tired, they would have spoken further. But for tonight, Fakhir decided they should retire and rest, and set off again at dawn.

 

Fakhir volunteered for first watch.

Blinded by a happiness he couldn’t describe, when morning came Muu could only despair as he became sinkingly aware that Fakhir never agreed to his end of the promise. 

 

The blood that stained the tree Fakhir leaned on was fresh. Damp and thick and far too voluminous to have been blood sprayed from an enemy. It was Fakhir’s own blood, and he had been bleeding out the entire time he and Muu spoke to each other.

_ How could he have been so blind? _

Muu’s eyes were wide in horror, the last of its light slipping out from his gaze as despair strangled him and he felt like throwing up. 

The body itself was not there.

In the night, Fakhir had dragged his own half-dead corpse through the woods and into the river. He stayed awake through deadly wounds in sheer willpower alone, and gave Muu the hope he never thought he needed.

 

Muu promptly fell to his hands-- and despite every and anything, he sobbed.

He sobbed, and  _ sobbed _ ,

 

and sobbed.

  
  


Fakhir didn’t find Muu by chance. He had been looking for Muu, wishing desperately to speak to him one last time. Because why else would he have called out to Muu in the darkness, when he knew they had to stay unnoticed?

Fakhir wasn’t crying in joy, like Muu was. He was crying sorrowfully, because he knew he wouldn’t live to see that new dream come true.

When Fakhir whispered a goodnight into Muu’s ear before he slept, the much softer  _ I love you _ was not in his imagination.

 

The signs were all there.

And yet, Muu didn’t notice a thing.


	30. he hears the name he seeks.

The first thing Ayaan saw was darkness. 

Then, it was dark teal hair, and pained blue eyes. Ayaan laid on his back, arms tucked close into himself-- and his eyes began to take in the form above him.

 

Khrue pinned him down, hands resting beside Ayaan’s face and knees uncomfortably tucked to each side of Ayaan’s waist. 

Ayaan wasn’t about to express his discomfort for the position, because in the next moment, Ayaan noticed the splintered tree trunk that impaled the older boy through the stomach, and embedded deep inside the ground right next to Ayaan’s body.

The red-haired boy soon noticed that this darkness was the shadow of a large boulder-- barely stuck upright by the stump of a tree and jammed between a pile of debris.

Ayaan was in the littlest crevice of space possible, his body entirely unharmed.

 

Khrue’s eyes squeezed shut from effort, lips biting down so hard blood spilled through the corners of his lips, but he couldn’t falter.

Khrue’s body was holding up most of the boulder above them, and if he lost consciousness, or swayed for even a moment, everything would topple over.

Ayaan was completely safe-- because Khrue had protected him.

 

Ayaan stared at the boy, eyes wide-- and when the boy noticed that gaze, he managed a throaty laugh at the sight.

“We- Well,” Khrue tried to talk, chuckling humorlessly and coughing out spit mixed with red, “you look… fine. That’s… a- a relief.”

Ayaan’s eyes fixed on the boy’s mouth.

At the red that wasn’t his tongue, but his blood. At his teeth, usually white, now dripping red because when his mouth filled with blood, he would throw it up into the ground beside Ayaan.

Ayaan didn’t care how disgusting it was.

He felt a burning near the edge of his eyes, and something in him whimpered, and cried out. Tears spilled from his eyes as despair overtook everything he’d ever known. And a voice that he didn’t know he had began to plead, “why?”

 

Khrue’s eyes widened at that-- then softened, even through the agony.

“Because…” he managed to choke out the words, short, and strangled, but coherent, “I’m… an older brother.”

And something inside Ayaan broke to pieces.

 

“Khrue,” he sobbed, hands reaching toward the wood that speared through the older boy’s stomach, “Khrue. Please, no.”

The blood on the wood was wet and fresh and warm.

It wouldn’t be for any longer.

 

“Toska,” Khrue managed the words out, eyes closing, then snapping open, a grunt throwing out of him as his limbs strained from the effort. He raised his head up stronger, fighting against consciousness. 

“You--” Khrue’s eyes were desperate, fearful, hopeful, “--run.”

And Ayaan lifted his hands, pressing against Khrue’s shoulders as if to help the boy stay upright against the boulder he heaved up.

Ayaan’s eyes brimmed with tears, realizing what he was trying to tell him. He didn’t want to do it, “...alone?”

Khrue jerked his head down sharply in a nod, “can’t… hold on any… long- ger.”

 

Ayaan knew he had no time to hesitate. But that didn’t stop the pain-- the  _ pain _ , how long had it been since Ayaan knew what pain was? Since Ayaan shed any tears?

Since Ayaan spoke a person’s name with an emotion that wasn't an obligation?

It was like the emotions finally,  _ finally _ broke free from the chains. Suddenly utter devastation flooded his senses and exhaustion washed over him enough to make him nauseated and want to curl up and just cry in denial.

He felt affection. For Khrue, for being the first person to truly accept him and make him feel protected, even though he was a  _ Fanalis _ . 

He felt sorrow. Because even now when he realized he was free, he was unable to do anything for the one person he wanted to keep close to him. He was going to lose someone so soon to truly gaining him.

He felt fear. In this time, in this horror, he can’t bear to leave him to die. He was scared of what came next. He doesn’t know what was happening. He doesn’t know where he can go. He was going to leap into foreign grounds for the first time since he was born.

And he would be alone.

 

“Hurry and go,” Khrue urged, growing impatient, “go,  _ Toska _ .”

Ayaan crawled out of the crevice, and crouched down before Khrue, cradling the boy’s head in his hands and planting a kiss on the older boy’s forehead.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Khrue cried out a sob-filled laugh. Ayaan saw his eyes glaze over, his body trembled strongly but firm. He wasn’t giving up yet, and his life was hanging on a thin thread.

He was awake on desperation alone.

“Could you…” his voice was soft, barely a croak now, but Ayaan leaned in to listen closer, “te-ll, me… your… name?”

Ayaan was stunned for a sharp few moments.

Then the words spilled out of him, so strongly it was like he wasn’t the one speaking, “Ayaan,” he was surprised by his own words, “my name-- is, it’s, Ayaan.”

 

Until two moments ago, he had completely forgotten what his name was.

So when the words spilled from him, he found himself thankful. Thankful that now, he had something to remember about himself.

Something to tell him he was still a person.

 

He looked into Khrue’s eyes, and he could tell the older boy could no longer see. His eyes were cloudy. His smile was weak and slow.

His mouth opened, and closed slowly-- no longer able to form the noise from his throat, Ayaan looked as closely as he could, listened as clearly to the whispers Khrue sent.

Ayaan nodded, understanding.

Leaning his forehead to the older boy’s, Ayaan bid him meaningfully. “Thank you for everything,” he tried not to cry while he said it, “I will remember you.”

 

Ayaan leapt away. He heard a shatter and a crash behind him, but he didn’t turn back to look. He clenched his fists tight and, with new composure and a clear mind that didn’t belong to a slave, he ran.

The war was dwindling to a close as quickly as it began. There was no longer anyone to kill or fight. It would be safe now to travel across the border.

So Ayaan ran toward the bridges.

 

Breathing out, Ayaan reminded himself the last few words Khrue said to him. He composed the words-- the  _ name _ Khrue had spent the last of his energy telling Ayaan, (Khrue’s name. Khrue had a name. It’s Khrue’s real name. It’s--) 

 

_ My name is-- _

 

_ Ha. _

_ Ku. _

 

_ Yuu. _


	31. and a run to freedom.

**_Move your pinky a little to the left._ **

Ayaan obeyed.

The thin metal piece wrought through the keyhole of his shackles. He held it with his fingers rather than his thumb-- well, the voice said to do that-- he dug around suspiciously for long moments, simply trying to make sense of what he was doing.

**_Move your fingers down. Hard._ **

He cranked the pick upwards. And to his unsuppressed surprise, a heavy  _ clunk _ shuddered through the rusted metal.

For a frightening second, he thought they felt  _ looser _ .

**_Take out the pick._ **

His thumb moved forward, retrieving the stupid steel thing that was probably a hairpin, and dropping it to the ground almost in relief.

**_You can take off the shackles now_ ** **.**

Ayaan moved one hand to his other wrist-- and with an impossibly easy, bone-lifting twist-- the thick, rusted metal creaked out of place, loosing wide enough for his hand to come free.

 

He eyes his wrist-- free,  _ light _ ,  _ empty _ , and the next breath he takes felt so free.

He tugs off the other side, and lets the disgusting, red-corroded metal fall to the ground-- and he looks at it almost reverently.

How long had it been since he saw his own bare wrist?

That portion of skin is white. Rubbed red and lined with deep scars, lacerated from years of abuse-- that single bit of himself was almost something he’d never seen before in his life.

Most amazing of all, his wrists were free from the tattoos that marred him his Master’s.

It glowed bright red against his tanned skin, but that portion, paler white, had no tattoos. It’s like that was a part of him that was still pure and untainted.

 

**_Let’s go, Ayaan._ **

He’s dragged out of his stupor.

 

On a stretch of land not too unfamiliar to himself, he swiped his gaze over the endless desert around him, and perches calmly on the rock he sat.

_ To where _ , he wondered. _ To where can he go? _

“Home?” he asked, brokenly, “gone?”

When the voice doesn’t respond, Ayaan found himself sobbing into his now free hands, his cries loud and uncaring, his tears cold and salty and-- and  _ human _ .

 

Is he free?

His shackles were gone. He wasn’t a slave anymore and his master was-- gone? So what? He still had the tattoos and master had many acquaintances. Master had many successors that weren’t with him in Sindria. If anyone found Ayaan again Ayaan would return to the slave trade, again.

Nothing’s really changed from all those years ago, when Ayaan would wish to escape but wouldn’t because he knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Ayaan was still weak and helpless.

He couldn’t escape unless he was  _ bought  _ over.

But who would buy this worthless slave? How could they, now that Master was dead?

Ayaan was trapped.

 

**_If you live in hiding, they will not find you_ ** .

He stopped fearing for a moment, but both of them knew that wasn’t really true. 

What is freedom if the cost was to simply cower, and hide forever? That wasn’t freedom. That was simply another hell of confinement.

Ayaan had lost his freedom, and the tattoos made sure that was eternal.

There was nowhere Ayaan could go. Nowhere for Ayaan to be. No food, no shelter this time-- simply emptiness, darkness, and so much more fear.

 

He lifted his head, and the world spun.

He doubled over, and threw up. He whimpered helplessly at the sight of himself-- his vomit was red. He slammed his fist into the ground and could only howl, depaired.

He knew that he would never have  _ freedom _ .

He knew, so why was he still crying over it?

Why, oh why, did he have  _ hope? _

 

“I’m marked,” he told himself, “I’m marked, forever.”

He dug the heel of his palms into his eyes, almost wishing he could gouge them out. He sniffled, unable to even stand.

“...why can’t I just die already?”

 

Red was the colour of his hair.

Red was the colour of the marks on his skin.

Red was the colour of his blood.

Red was the colour of their pride.

Red was also the colour of  _ her _ eyes.

 

Ayaan ran through the desert. His energy was infinite, his heart beat strong and fast and without rest. His breath was forcefully calm. 

“Hey, who was I?” he asked.

He didn’t expect an answer. Who was she, inside his head? Whoever she was, he trusted her. But maybe she didn’t know either.

**_You were_ ** **loved** **_._ **

She responded so strangely, Ayaan couldn’t understand. Love was strange to him-- it wasn’t entirely necessary. It was never needed for Master. Ayaan didn’t understand.

Where was he going? It was like his body knew.

His nose picked up a scent.

It was like rain. It smelled like the earth, of honey, of crushed leaves. Like the heat of the desert, but spiced with a warm blessing from nature.

It smelled like  _ home _ .

 

He finds himself before a ruined village.

Imploded brick walls, sand-crusted baskets, trampled and dried harvests. Hollow houses, caved in and broken, and left to age on its own.

Somehow, when he saw it, he calmed.

His heart eased and a weight lifted off his shoulders. A light feeling clouded his chest, and he felt the urge to run through the ground in his bruised feet, and let the hair he hated so much run behind him.

He breathed for what felt like the first time--  _ what was this feeling called? _

“I’m home,” he heard himself say.

And somehow, he understood that this was  _ love _ .

 

He didn’t enter the village. He simply sat down there, at the entrance, and drank in the sight.

Nothing came to mind.

“My name is Ayaan,” he told himself.

Nothing else came to mind.

He was no longer Master’s  _ Toska _ . And Khrue,  _ Hakuyuu _ , was dead. He thought this was  _ home, _ but it looked ruined and no one lived there. 

“I have nowhere to go,” he concluded, “alone.”

Did he have a family?

He didn’t remember any. But he couldn’t go anywhere, not when he had these tattoos on him. He remembered Khrue telling him that slaves couldn’t be with their family anymore. That was how it worked.

 

He heard the sound of a flute, and lifted his head.

It came from a distance, and he wasn’t too sure how far away it was, but he heard it. Or maybe it was his ear ringing again.

He stood up, and looked curiously-- that was the direction where nothing was. Or, he remembered someone telling him that. That  _ that way, you should never go _ . It looked like an empty stretch of desert, but apparently it had no end and you would wander forever?

 

**_Let’s go there_ ** .

She hadn’t been wrong about anything yet. So Ayaan picked himself up, and started running.

He ran, all the way to the Continental Rift.


	32. a change he can't believe.

“It’s so high.”

Ayaan was never scared of heights, but anyone would be terrified of this.

 

The chasm was endless, abysmal-- only pitch darkness lay under him, and now that he stood near the edge, his vision seemed to swirl and he leaned back on instinct, falling back and regretting his decision to head here at all.

_ It is. _ The woman simply acknowledges.

Ayaan wanted to cry, “what do you want me to do?”

 

There was no way but forward, but nothing lay before him except stomach-dropping death.

A look again at his own skin, so obviously marked in the bright sunlight-- and suddenly he’s resolved again, wanting nothing but to get away, no matter what he has to do.

The rift stretched endlessly, side by side and so far away there was no horizontal end to it. It was like the edge of the world, and whatever lay after it-- only god would know. 

He found a strangely jutting mound of sand, a tall tower near the rift-- and he wanted to walk closer. 

The girl told him it was probably a  _ dungeon _ .

_ You shouldn’t go inside. It’ll trap you in and you won’t be able to get out. You’re not strong enough to conquer one. _

Trap. That word was a familiar one. Ayaan was always trapped.

“Ayaan’s free,” he muttered to himself. Like a reminder, he told himself again, “Ayaan is not trapped anymore.”

_ Yes, you are free _ . She agreed.

Ayaan steered away from the dungeon, and faced the endless ridge again. Once again, there was nothing but darkness under the mist and the clouds-- he reached in, wondering if, if he leaned far enough, he could feel for the end.

_ It’s too far away, Ayaan _ .

And Ayaan knew that.

But the darkness seemed so close, so far-- there was a sort of longing there. It felt like he was watching the night sky-- and his hands were so close to it, he could almost dip his fingers in and catch some stars.

 

_ Just jump, Ayaan, _

When she told him that, Ayaan had half a mind to ask,  _ why? _ It sounded scary. He didn’t want to jump off a ledge when he can’t see anything under it… but did he have the authority to say no? He wondered if saying no was even an option. 

Why would Ayaan even dare to say no, anyways? 

 

He smelled nothing forward.

**But he smelled despair behind him.**

And that was enough to pull him forward and take that step he needed.

  
  


Ayaan took one step, two-- and with a roar, he soared.

The winds took him, capturing him in its wave-- eyes squeezed shut and clothes fluttering in the sheer pressure, Ayaan held his breath-- and was swallowed into darkness.

He cut through the darkness, and he was falling.

 

And he kept falling.

 

His body spun head turning down until he was jetting downward at such an incredible speed, breath couldn’t take him. His balance was lost and in total emptiness, he could see nothing. Touch nothing. Hear nothing. He felt nothing but fear.

Airborne and with nothing in reach anywhere, Ayaan held back a sob.

 

Then, he was caught.

 

Something, perhaps gold and glowing, bubbled into existence.

The tears in his eyes blurred his vision, but he feels something under his elbow for a split second before he dives through it, the cushion useless against his fall.

He falls through a row of golden globules,each one taking a bit of his speed away.

The last one barely captures him for a safe landing-- and Ayaan finds himself slouched in the soft umbrella of a glowing mushroom. 

He jerked, hacking up the frozen air in his lungs and clasping, grasping desperately for the thin, thin underground air.

He tastes a bit of blood under his tongue, and his eyes burn so thoroughly the tears prickled and clumped together under his nasty eyelashes.

His fists were whiteknuckled over his chest, and as if the trail of vomit leading to his chin wasn’t enough of an indication, Ayaan groaned as the world spun and spiraled out of control. Horridly nauseated, he stayed down for another long moment before daring to function again.

 

“Wh-” he choked, coughing roughly.

He struggled to steady himself, but the uncomfortably soft ground tilted, he slipped-- and Ayaan was sent bouncing out onto the soil with a surprised yelp.

Weird mystical glowing mushrooms, he wanted to point out. What?

 

“I’ve been waiting, Ayaan.”

Ayaan squeaked at the voice that all but suddenly emerged behind him-- he jolted, instinct shooting him to his feet and his arms behind him in a poise of strength-- but instantly he flattened, not recognizing the face before him.

In the ending night under the Continental Rift, a man gleamed in the light of yellow butterflies.

 

Ayaan’s legs gave out on him. Crumbled on the ground, he looked up helplessly as the man seemed to approach him without a single care of him-- normal, he remembered. 

Everyone always come near him anyways, why was he still scared when people did it? ...is it going to hurt again?

 

“Don’t be afraid-- you came to me for help, didn’t you, Ayaan?”

Ayaan perked up when the man called him by name. 

And that’s when Ayaan, against all he believed in-- looked the man in the eyes.

They were green, like pools of the forest leaves densely gathered together. They weren’t tense, but they were soft, gentle-- and in those eyes, Ayaan saw himself.

Ayaan saw his own wide-eyed figure, overgrown hair sprawled over the entirety of his figure. He saw the marks even through that tiny reflection, and he could see the fear in his own eyes.

It was like the prey that Ayaan always hunted.

So… was Ayaan prey, too?

 

“No… the one that was asking me for help isn’t you,” the man spoke to himself. He waved a long brown staff, and left it to the side, not using it. 

His oversized green hat hung over his figure, but Ayaan found himself staring at the ruby embedded in its crown-- that was an expensive thing, wasn’t it? How did this man have that? Was he rich?

 

What was this man doing under the edge of the world?

“The one that called for me is the one inside you,” the man poked the child on the forehead, “the black one, the little lady.”

 

Ayaan froze.  _ How did this man know about that lady? _

 

Suddenly the man’s smile didn’t seem as kind anymore.

“I don’t appreciate being  _ tested _ this way, alright?” he pouted, farcely childish, “Ayaan could’ve died if I was any moment later!”

 

To Ayaan’s own horror, his lips parted and his throat rumbled to speak. To laugh, in a tone and using words Ayaan would never speak himself.

“You talk as if you weren’t listening on our every word, Magi.”

The voice was Ayaan’s.

But the words were the girl’s.

 

Ayaan was shoved into the back of his own mind-- and what happened next, Ayaan watched it as an outsider. He wasn’t the one speaking, he wasn’t the one moving.

He was being possessed, perhaps.

 

And that lady in his head was real.


	33. the sound of wind.

Yunan’s brows furrowed, confused.

His eyes were hollow and filled with displeasure, a sort of annoyance brimming through his farcely calm and friendly demeanor. He was the kind of person that knew when to be serious and when not to, but right now, he debated within himself.

All Yunan could hear, from his own ears and from the Rukh, was how far this child has come, how much he has gone through, and how devastated he currently was.

It spoke volumes of how he seemed to talk to himself. Was he unstable? Emotionally hallucinating? Why was he speaking to himself, was he simply… coping?

Then he came down here with a suicidal leap into the chasm and maybe,  _ maybe _ there was more to it. 

The boy, for someone apparently amnesiac and raised in slavery, knew a lot. He knew how to speak in the language. He knew his way to the Continental Rift. He knew what a dungeon was-- or at least, that he had to avoid it.

And most of all he knew he would’ve been saved if he jumped.

Could this child hear the voice of the rukh too? Is that why he acted like he had been guided this way through, each step slowly and surely? Yunan didn’t understand.

Then the boy opened his mouth and spoke, and Yunan realized what was going on.

-

“Who are you?” he asked, voice colder than he had intended. His staff held at the side, he did not let his guard down.

You could never let your guard down in front of people like these. The Rukh within him was depraved to the core, and he was smiling.

Just like Judal.

“You know his name,” _ Ayaan _ pointed at himself, “but if you are asking for  _ mine _ , I don’t have one that can be communicated to you.”

Yunan’s grip tightened on his staff. “You possess him,” he says, matter-of-fact, and though he wasn’t too sure  _ how,  _ he has seen it before. Maybe a hypnotist, from Al-Thamen.

“No, I am trapped within him,” he corrects, and Yunan is not convinced that it could mean any less of a threat, “as for what I am… I am a spirit that failed to return to the flow of the rukh.”

“Huh?” it leaves the blond before he could stop it.

All life returns to the rukh, that is basic knowledge-- for someone to suggest  _ failing _ to return to the flow would be saying water streamed upward a waterfall. It just wasn’t possible.

Then Yunan stopped-- it  _ was _ . It was possible with magic.

There was a reverent look on  _ Ayaan’s _ face that threw Yunan off his rails. He looked genuinely sorrowful, and even Judal had never managed to achieve that expression of  _ exhaustion _ falsely.

This wasn’t a hateful spy.

This was a broken child.

“Many years ago, I… who I used to be, was murdered,” he explained, hands held out to try and prove his point, “and when I woke up-- I was here, and I understood that I wasn’t supposed to be here. But when I died that day I was filled to the core with raw spite. Before I realized, my heart was darkened and I had already completely fallen into depravity.”

And as if he could see the rukh, he gestured beside him.

Yunan could see it. He could see the whirlwind of sickly black butterflies scattering from his arm, tainting the natural purity of this chasm.

“You know very much of the Rukh,” Yunan said carefully. The skepticism in him only grew, but the story wasn’t a lie. He could tell, because the rukh sang in his ears of how much of it was true. The black rukh screamed out in agony of what they’ve gone through.

Yunan wished he could stop hearing them.

“I know plenty, too much,” he answered, without hesitation, “because I am not of this world.”

For a moment, all thought stopped for Yunan.

Is he joking? He wanted to ask, but the Rukh hadn’t stopped buzzing about  _ true! True! True!  _ Yunan, for the first time in his life, is doubting the words of the rukh. He knows that  _ they  _ can never lie but this sounded too incredulous to be true.

“...From Solomon?” Yunan tried, hesitant, and is almost relieved (yet absolutely horrified) when the boy shook his head firmly, steely expression on his face.

“But I know of him,” he said, “I know of you, too.”

-

Yunan pulled them to his house, and they sit down for a nice, long talk with tea that honestly tasted absolutely awful because of the story.

“I have been called many things, even in my past life,” he, (no, Yunan learned that it was in fact a  _ she _ ) explained again when Yunan asked for something to call her, “but it is in a language that you may not understand.”

“Then explain it to me in a way I can understand,” Yunan didn’t understand why the girl was being so roundabout. It’s just a name.

“My real name… I am an Aeolian noise, a sound from the wind,” she said, as briefly as she could, “they have also called me a witch. A murderer, a curse, a failure, a jinx, an adulterer… shall I go on?”

Yunan stayed silent for a moment. Then, “no, I’m sorry. Please don’t.”

Ayaan, seemingly having sat down in the mindscape of their consciousness the whole time, was still confused. But he could feel what she felt, and at the very least,  _ understood _ .

“Ayaan’s rukh is naturally pure, like most,” a finger prodded at the edge of her teacup (Ayaan did not like whatever that grass juice thing was) as she explained, “but perhaps because of me, he is more susceptible to the darkness. At the moment, he is almost entirely depraved.”

That caught Yunan’s attention.

“You say you cannot see the rukh, but you can see your own?” he guessed, and the girl looked at him with a firm, confirming nod.

“These past years, I have been protecting the light that was left in him,” and she put a hand to her chest, “there is only one piece of light left, and I’m afraid there is little I can do to make it last any longer.”

Yunan’s eyes narrowed, “you want to head to the other side.”

There’s a freeze in the atmosphere as they locked deep, hostile eyes. 

“On that end, there is no distinction between the darkness and the light,” her tone is firmer and stronger than before. She was evidently aware of Yunan’s reluctance, “it is logical.”

“You tell me you know everything about this world,” Yunan was less patient now, too, “then you understand fully what it means for a Fanalis to cross the border.”

“You mean to let Ayaan suffer in depravity?” she snarled, “look at him!” 

She spread her arms and Yunan, for all his effort to  _ not stare _ , is fed a full view of just how  _ full _ the boy’s body was, marked to every inch in flesh-deep ink, calling him  _ less than human _ .

“Ayaan has nothing left on this side,” she told him, “let him have one on the other.”


	34. look forward and don't stop running.

Yunan put his foot down, “he is not without love. He has family. A family who is waiting for him in the Colosseums of Reim, and you  _ know _ that. Ayaan may not remember them but they are  _ waiting  _ for him.”

And he was right. 

“As of the moment, the Fanalis are weak,” the girl said, finger tapping on the teacup, “if Ayaan, as heavily marked as he is, returns to Reim… He will not be accepted.”

Yunan attempted to speak, but the girl raised a palm to stop him.

“Ayaan is infamous in Reim. He was once a beast, after all--” she told him, and she knew Yunan was very much aware of this, “people will recognize him, and Ayaan will not fit in.”

Yunan fisted his hands, caught in the losing end of the argument.

“But the Fanalis will rise,” he said, “Ayaan’s presence is a boost Muu will need.”

At this point of time, Muu had just come around. He had come only weeks ago to the rift, to see Yunan for the first time. Yunan was miserable at the thought of these two barely missing each other. Muu had been in despair, after all-- and that boy Fakhir-- they desperately needed Ayaan with them.

Why couldn’t the girl understand that? 

(But perhaps, this was fate as well.)

“Their force is still fragile now,” the girl said, then smirked knowingly, “I’ve heard the rumours. They’re growing, but anti-Fanalis sentiment is strong and people cannot stand the idea of those  _ monsters _ gaining political power.”

And that was also true. Muu was already a shaky force, and that was solidified with the knowing that he was of royal blood. He earned the trust of the  _ normal _ knights by grinding his path upwards in knighthood.

Muu was beginning to liberate slaves, and although pro-slavery movement is beginning to dwindle, it is simply not right to begin forcing the ideals. They needed to take their time with this.

“What they need is stability and clean histories,” so the girl put emphasis on this part, “they need to show that they are liberating slaves legally. Ayaan, who is a heavily-marked escapee, recently involved in a country-wide massacre-- he will throw a wrench in what little faith the country currently has in Muu.”

Yunan breathed in, slowly.

She was right.

But that didn’t mean it was kind.

“I’m sure Muu wouldn’t mind,” Yunan spoke up, hesitant, “I’m sure that, beyond anything, this will help Fakhir emotionally. You do not understand Fakhir’s current state--”

“Whatever happens to him, it is beyond my knowledge,” she returned sharply, “let fate run its course.”

Yunan whirled, horrified. She did  _ not _ just imply that. She did not-- 

“You are a  _ hater _ of fate,” he doesn’t hide the anger in his tone. His hand left the teacup and he scrutinized the girl, suspicion building in him again, “the rukh you hold-- they display that strongly. You are not the kind that will say things like  _ let fate run its course _ . Judal was the same-- you are lying.”

Your intentions are not for Ayaan, he didn’t say. Your intentions are, above all, for your own gain.

“Ayaan does not remember his brother,” the girl was on her temper’s edge, “he does not currently wish to see his brother, much less become a burden to him again.”

“Ayaan is  _ not  _ a burden--”

“He is.”

The finality in her tone caught him off guard, and Yunan hissed, irritated.

“You would keep him from such a reunion?” when he managed to speak, he didn’t expect himself to sound so hurt by it. “You know Ayaan’s heart, you’ve been living with it. You know that even without his memories he wishes more than anything to see his family again.”

The response he got was satirical.

The girl raised a brow, and chortled. “You are  _ emphathizing _ with this child?” she questioned rhetorically, “you, the hardest-to-read, Yunan?”

He didn’t think he was losing the argument.

“You are immature,” he grunted out, “why then, are you speaking to me? Is it not because you wish for someone to stop you?” 

The rukh around her fluttered in a panic, and Yunan’s eyes flashed in a realization. 

“You wish for someone to understand you,” this was not a question.

She wanted someone to talk to. About everything. Not Ayaan’s side of the story-- but hers. 

“How do you know everything?” he finally questioned, eyes narrowing. There was no reason for her to know if Ayaan did not know as well, “how much more do you know? About this world?” 

Yunan’s learned that she knows the workings of the world. She knew the truth of Sindria’s fall, things even Yunan barely understands. But she knew it in depth, to the last detail. 

Could it be that she knew the future too?

He thought for a moment longer, then added, “why do you want to go to the other end?”

The girl, pausing to reconsider her approach, looked Yunan in the eyes as if to silently determine how trustworthy he truly was. Yunan wasn’t about to let her know.

“I know that if I try to cross the rift on my own, you will stop me, and draw us back before we fully assimilate,” she said, “just like what you did to Muu.”

Yunan shouldn’t have been surprised, but the jerk in his movements was too clear.

She should not have known that Muu had come by the rift. It was ridiculous to even imagine that she could know about something so personal to him and Muu only.

“I am part of Ayaan’s rukh,” she told him, and in her hands a black butterfly only Yunan could see sprouts into being. “So in a land without the rukh-- I will disappear.”

Yunan lifted his head, surprised.

“I want to pass on,” she said, “I want to die.”

-

If there was anything Ayaan knew, it was that this place was warm.

It was not quiet, but there was nowhere really, that was. The chaos was like a mangled cacophony of thoughts, a pulsation in the darkness. He couldn’t really tell where it was coming from, but as he lay down, listening, he found that he didn’t mind listening to it forever.

He heard them talk, but he was unable to respond.

He wouldn’t know much of what to say, anyways. He recognized a few words and understood a few implications, but others, he drew a blank.

They spoke with tough words, and other times kept silent, as if they were talking only through their gaze. Ayaan didn’t get them at all, but maybe that was fine too.

He gained control of his body once more, and opened his eyes to the light.

To the blond, green-clothed mage that called himself Yunan. The smile that man wore was strange. They were pure and honest, like Anise’s; and they were sad and upset, like Khrue’s.

They were both-- was such a mixture possible? 

_ They are crafty _ , the voice in his head spoke again,  _ they are sly, and hide more than they appear. He is kind by nature, but cruel by choice. He is emphatic, yet cold.  _

“Ayaan,” the man spoke, and there was a gentle intonation to his voice that the boy’s only heard the girl in his mind use on him. “We… we need to tell you something.”

Ayaan blinked.

“Do you want to go home, to your family?” Yunan asked, and there was a hopeful sadness in his eyes that made Ayaan think he wanted him to say no, “or do you want to run away from here, to another place?”

Ayaan listened for a response from the voice in his head.

After all, she was the one that always made the decisions. She was the one that knew what to do-- so why was this man asking Ayaan, and why was the lady not responding?

Ayaan took a moment to remember he has to speak a reply now.

He wasn’t a slave anymore-- he was expected to have a verbal response. His answers were now chosen independently, of his own will. 

But what if his choice was the wrong one?

“Where?” Ayaan feared that asking a question back would be wrong, too. So he swallowed his words and affirmed-- “Ayaan,  just wants to be free.”

Free from where?

Ayaan held up his hands and looked at the markings on them. “Ayaan wants these gone,” he said. Then as if remembering, he moved his hand to his stomach, “Ayaan is sick. Ayaan doesn’t want to be sick anymore.” 

He hadn’t thrown up in a while. But perhaps that was simply because he hadn’t eaten a thing in ages.

He moved his hand to his ear, brushing back the hair there until the deformed earlobe was in full display. Yunan suppressed a hiss at the sight. 

Ayaan looked away and selfishly, so selfishly whispered to himself, “Ayaan doesn’t want to look like this anymore.”

That told Yunan the answer he needed.

Yunan didn’t manage to smile for the boy. He managed to not cry, but the utter pain that wrenched his expressions dry probably told the boy enough.

Yunan looked down, to his own knees, and he knew that he had lost.

There was no point in leaving this boy on this side of the world. Not for his own sake and not for the sake of the girl inside of him. After all, if he didn’t remember anyway, Ayaan wouldn’t mind not meeting them.

“Then, Ayaan, come with me,” he spoke and his voice was uncomfortably even, even for himself. 

He stepped out of the cottage, and gestured to the darkness beyond.

“Go that way,” Yunan crouched down, and looked him clear in the eyes. “One day, you’ll meet someone else that can treasure you so much, you’ll never hurt again.”

The promise is entirely empty. Yunan had no basis to swear such a thing to the boy, but he couldn’t help it. Yunan barely knew anything of the Dark Continent himself-- but this boy needed hope.

This boy needed hope and staying on this side of the world wouldn’t help it.

Especially if, like the girl had said, this world would soon plunge into war and devastation. How could they subject Ayaan through all that? Ayaan needed to recover. To hide.

Ayaan needed a place that was safe.

It didn’t matter if Ayaan would be apart from his family on this side-- Ayaan deserved freedom. Freedom from the depravity that possessed him; Freedom from the humans that hurt him; and Freedom from the tainted human skin he was bound in.

Ayaan needed a place where he can heal, away from any and everything that could reject him. He needed people who would accept him no matter how he looked now and how broken he was, and the only people that could do that for a Fanalis would be the Fanalis themselves.

Yunan would have offered to keep him here, with Yunan, and Yunan would be willing to raise him, to guide him where he needed.

But Yunan knew he was incapable of it. Not after messing up so badly with Sinbad-- Yunan didn’t have the right. Ayaan needed an honest guide, someone that could teach him how to live again.

Yunan was fated to stay here longer, build up the sins he earned, and keep this secret to his grave.

“If fate wills it, we will meet again,” he promised.

And he truly believed that. So when he watched Ayaan vanish into the darkness, Yunan managed to smile, thinking of the day where he will see them all together again.

It will be a long wait.

But it will be worth it.


	35. and a welcome home he needs.

“What is your wish?”

“Be my friend!”

 

“She’s a slave.”

“There! I broke it. Now you don’t have to hide your pretty legs anymore, right?”

 

“Let’s go see the world together, Aladdin!”

“It’s a promise!”

 

“Sorry, Aladdin. But I’m the leader of the Fog Troupe.”

“Why are you asking me that again? Of course we’re friends!”

 

“Why do you exist, Sinbad? Why must someone like you exist?”

“Tonight is the Maharajan!”

 

“Mor, when you’re with us, it’s like we have wings!”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Morgiana.”

 

“I don’t want to die yet.”

“Aladdin… you really were… a Magi.”

 

“Kougyoku, you know him??”

“Alibaba and I are best friends, Onii-sama!”

 

“I think that Aladdin is looking upon the same scenery as Yunan.”

“Today I defy the creator of this world!”

 

“Even if I die, even if  _ he  _ dies... 

Judar won’t be able to return.”

 

“Where Alibaba’s spirit ends up, I don’t know.

 And if you don’t know either, no one does.”

 

“Is it so wrong to give up, grow resentful, and struggle?”

“Is it really bad to be depraved?”

 

“Become my Magi, Aladdin.”

“I like you, Uncle Sinbad. But I still think you’re wrong.”

 

“I chose  _ you _ to be the king of this world, Alibaba.”

“I will fight. That is my answer.”

 

“I don’t want the world to return to the Rukh,

So let’s win this, Alibaba.”

  
  


“If the towers were to be destroyed, the djinn, the metal vessels, and the magi system will vanish as well.”

 

“What will happen from now on? 

No one knows, of course. 

That’s why, everyone can play a role in it! 

No one in this world is insignificant.

It’s a new world!”

 

-

-

-

-

-

-

 

“I was under the impression that the Red Lions wanted to meet me…” Muu didn’t intend to sound rude, but at times (and towards certain people,) he honestly couldn’t bother with manners, “so, why is  _ he _ here?”

“I’ll kick you off the island, punk.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

It was humorous, to see a bunch of grown men growling at each other like animals, while the actual beasts stood by the sides as if  _ they _ were the civil creatures.

Aladdin sighed, his staff by his side and Alibaba trying in vain to quell their absolutely awful-as-usual relationship. Hakuryuu, sipping on a cup of tea, just watched.

“We still haven’t sorted out our land issues, have we? Don’t think I didn’t see you move the lines last time,” Muu glared at the man, who scoffed.

“We have to shoulder the Red Lions too, we need more space!” Takeruhiko argued, “to begin with, you were the one that drew that border over--”

“Guys, guys, c’mon, let’s get along!” Alibaba stood between them, hopelessly small in comparison. 

“How long more are we going to quarrel over this?” Hakuryuu sighed.

“You say that because you have the biggest chunk of land!” two idiots snapped right back.

“That’s because the Kou Empire is huge!” he swung back with an argument.

Aladdin held back a groan. He turned to the Red Lions that stood by amusedly, wondering if this was going to be long and  _ ooh nice punch _ , eager to join in if it turned into a fistfight. 

“Alright, alright! Break it up, all of you!” 

Some years ago, if someone had told them that Aladdin would end up being the sensible one of the pack, no one would believe it. Now, though, that was something that went without saying. I mean, if they didn’t want to drag Kouen away from his calm little fishing port of peace, they’d better behave.

(That man, after the war, actually  _ did _ line every one of his soldiers just to give them a smack across the face, one by one. He was going to go down in history as the only one everyone unanimously feared.)

“To begin with, I only needed Muu-san and his Fanalis Corps. Takeru is uh, like, the postman,” Aladdin explained, promptly ignoring the offended claims of ‘I am a king, Aladdin, please respect me!’ as he turned to the Red Lions, “the big guys have something to ask of you, or something!”

Muu straightened at that. It was hard to not see the Red Lions as something superior, despite them being the same species in the end. Muu couldn’t help but treat them as if they were the lord of their region.

Alibaba looked nervously at the Red Lions. Unlike Hakuryuu, he had yet to get used to their existence. To think Morgiana was one of these-- damn, how cool was that?

“Uh-- sorry for the display,” Muu cleared his throat, ignoring how smug Lo’lo looked behind him as he coughed to hide his embarrassment, “how can we help you?”

Muu only brought a handful with him. Most of the others were helping out with the reconstruction, whilst the rest were at the memorial because today was their day of remembrance. It was honestly rude of Aladdin to call them out on a day like this, but Muu wasn’t about to reprimand him. 

“It was amusing,” the Red Lion, the biggest one (did they have names? Of course they did, but Aladdin just introduced him as Mister Big Guy and somehow no one wanted to tell Muu his actual name) laughed. 

“Y’see, Muu,” another spoke over Mister Big Guy, “it’s about Without-an-Ear…”

“No, no, Shine-under-Sun, the human-stuck Fanalis have shorter names,” Mister Big Guy intercepted, “they will not understand if we do not explain.”

Oh, is that how their name went? They were like sentences? 

“Y’see, y’see,” Shine-under-Sun spoke again, and this time his tone is a little slurred, “we have a cub from your side, cause Yunan-boy let him through quite a coupl’a years back.”

Muu blinked, and it took him a moment. Okay, a cub, that meant a baby beast, probably a young Red Lion. From your side, from the other side of the rift before the rift disappeared.

“Wait, a Fanalis from our side made it over?” Muu gawked, and if Yunan were here he’d be strangling the boke.  _ How dare you let another one over when you stopped me _ , or something, because he never liked that Magi-former-Magi anyways.

“Yes, and we’ve been raising him, though he’s a little nut of a pup,” Mister Big Guy sighed, and Muu had trouble figuring out what  _ that _ was supposed to mean. “Anyways, he got along well with Aladdin-boy, so it oughta be better for him if he’s around your type. Maybe he’s more comfortable with humans after all.”

Muu barely had a second of registration before a noise came from the entrance of the dojo.

Scampering on quadrupedal limbs, a Red Lion charged in. No matter how excited and playful the Red Lions were, none usually entered houses without permission-- but this one, the second after emerging from the hallway, charged right into Aladdin and knocked him over.

The boy himself barely noticed the red mass of fur before he hit the ground with a sharp yelp.

“Aladdin!!” Alibaba wailed as if he’d just fallen to his death.

“Wait, you’re leaving a Red Lion cub with the human-er Fanalis?” Takeruhiko was mortified to hear that, “not saying I don’t trust them, but are you  _ sure _ ?”

“Of course,” Shine-under-Sun sounded as if the question was dumb, “he used to be one of them, after all. He fits in better there.”

Hakuryuu and Alibaba watched Aladdin get assaulted by licks and paw-steps that probably hurt but the boy was laughing so--

Alibaba breathed out in relief, glad to see that Aladdin wasn’t in danger of… I don’t know, bestiality? Accidental play-murder caused by overexcited puppy? 

Then the Red Lion spotted him and jumped onto him instead. He shrieked, and ran behind Hakuryuu, who wasn’t able to run in time because he was sitting down. 

Hakuryuu, somehow hugging a scaly red… semi-dragon thing with a face kinda like a cat was this more like a cheetah or-- he awkwardly stroked its head. He noted the missing left ear, but prodded at it curiously twice before leaving it be.

So even Red Lions could get scars?

“Red Lions can speak human, right?” suddenly curious, he looked to Aladdin (who was covered in slobber) for answers.

And as if on cue, the Red Lion in his arms sniffed at his neck and made a sort of giggle.

“Yuu!” it called, surprising all of them, “Yuu, Yuu!”

Even the Red Lions leaned in with interest at that. Hakuryuu blinked, confused, while Aladdin looked nothing short of an insanely proud father. Alibaba freaked out,  _ it’s speaking! _ Then  _ oh right, they can speak _ .

“He doesn’t usually speak to anyone, so congrats, Hakuryuu.”

“Uh, oh, thanks?” Hakuryuu didn’t understand, but he guessed this was like some incredible privilege? Aladdin stop crying. He turned back to the Red Lion, cradling its face gently as it purred and leaned in to the touch.

**Okay, maybe it was kinda cute.**

“I’m not  _ Yuu _ ,” he correctly calmly, hoping that the beast could understand, “I’m  _ Ryuu _ .”

The Red Lion tilted its head to the side, confused, “not  _ Yuu _ ?”

**Okay, maybe it was incredibly cute.**

“He won over Hakuryuu in less than a minute, that’s amazing,” Alibaba whispered to Aladdin. He turned to the Fanalis Corps, “are you guys alright with taking it in, though? You guys are busy in the rebuilding after all-- Muu-san?” 

Yaqut and Razol looked decently fascinated, as if their Father had just granted them a pet-- but Muu and Lo’lo simply stared, eyes wide and arms frozen.

When Muu fell to his knees, Aladdin jerked up, alarmed. 

“Wha-- Muu? You okay?”

“What’s wrong?”

Lo’lo couldn’t bring himself to help. Both of them were simply petrified and stuck in place-- Yaqut and Razol panicked. After all, both of them were always the calmest and most composed of them all.

No one knew how to respond. 

The Red Lion crawled out of Hakuryuu’s arms, and deposited itself onto Muu, sniffling curiously at the human-esque Fanalis as if it had never seen another like it before. 

Muu pulled it into a hug so tight it may have been too hard, but he didn’t let go. There was a frantic will in him that begged for him to just not let go. A dire need to hold this one close, as close as possible, and never lose him again.

Tears tracked down his cheeks, and a sob broke through Muu’s lips. 

Lo’lo covered his eyes before the waterworks could slip from him. In his own croaky, broken voice, he whispered, “ _ thank you _ .”

**Thank you so, so much.**

-

-

-

"...after that, Muu took Lo'lo and me to the dungeon, and we conquered it."

Myron shuffled the flowers in the vase. It was a chaotic mixture of beautiful burgundy chrysanthemums and crimson dahlia blooms. It's an arrangement without any harmony nor taste, but they were beautiful flowers and that was all she cared about. 

Beside her, Morgiana surveyed the two tombstones with a sort of reverence. 

With Muu and Lo'lo surveying Kina with Aladdin, the girls decided to have a day out, as much more of a coincidental meeting by the flower field than anything. They had never really spoken much before then, and as the situation permitted, Morgiana wanted to get to know her better too. 

She always thought Myron was crude and vulgar, and that wasn't too atypical for a Fanalis woman, (in fact it was entirely respectable) but when Morgiana spotted her there, carefully choosing from the flowerbed, Morgiana noticed that perhaps, Myron had a side to her that was girlier than even Morgiana herself.

No one else could smile that sweetly. Not even Alibaba. 

"Fakhir," Morgiana read out the first grave, "Ayaan," she read out the other. 

They'd set up a memorial at the edge of the rift. One in memory of all the Fanalis that fell during the fall and those that perished trying to build it back up again. But these two in particular, Muu built separately to mourn personally. 

"To Muu, Fakhir was precious," Myron told Morgiana, turning up to her with a little tease, "precious, pretty much like how Alibaba is to you."

Morgiana blushed bright red and whined, "Myron-san!" Then she flushed brighter, "wait. Muu-san was...?"

Myron burst into laughter at that. "You're unexpectedly adorable, huh?" 

She stood up, and gave the grave one better look. "You remind me of Ayaan," her voice lowered as she said it, but Morgiana caught it all the same.

There's a pause, and a click.

Morgiana realized, "was Ayaan your precious person, Myron-san?"

The windmill wrench of a surprised turn in Myron's posture made Morgiana cheer victoriously (internally), then the older girl was sputtering shamefully.

"Ayaan was-- no, he-- but, really! I mean--"

Morgiana had never seen a fellow Fanalis so discomposed. It was a first. And kind of cute.

Myron seemed to have an epiphany, and she looked at the grave once again, an expression of understanding flashing across her eyes.

"Maybe," she took a moment to really understand what this feeling was-- this emotion, that was so strange and unique yet it wasn’t bad at all-- "but then again, maybe it's a little different. To me, it didn't matter what Ayaan was to me... to me, he just needed to be there."

She rested a hand on the cold stone. 

"Maybe I saw him as more of a brother," she considered, "or a son, or a rival. I wanted to be his knight. His guardian, or even his lover. Anything I could be, I wanted to be for him. Because he was so weak, so little, and so helpless, yknow? It made me want to cradle him within my fingers and watch over him forever."

And Morgiana understood. She understood that feeling so completely well, it felt amazing to hear it put into words. 

"I’d have loved to meet him,” she told the older girl.

Myron laughed, “yes, yes you would.”

She could imagine. Morgiana was so much younger, but she would totally be capable of chasing Ayaan around like a bully. It would be funny, especially if Razol joined the fray.

How Myron wished, deep inside her heart, that she could introduce everyone to Fakhir’s younger brother. They had adored Fakhir so much-- to this day, some of them have yet to accept Ayaan’s death. Ayaan had been the only thing Fakhir left behind, and they wanted to do everything they could to find the boy for him.

_ He was just missing _ , so many still insist, so many still believe-- maybe, just maybe, Muu believed Ayaan to have passed, simply because it hurt too much to think about Fakhir again. 

Even now, in peacetimes forevermore, the world was much too big. Bigger than before, and any hope of ever finding him again-- if there was a one percent, it’d have shrunken to decimals.

Meeting the Red Lions was an amazing leap in her life. How honoured she was to be one of those mighty beasts, where even Solomon could not partition them. 

She wished Ayaan had been there too, to see.  _ Look _ , she would have stretched out her arms and bragged,  _ look what we are, look what we were _ ! She would have to look extra smug about it,  _ you’re not weak at all, Ayaan, that’s proof of it! _

Ayaan was lost, and now, Myron couldn’t bring herself to mourn any further than a dull ache in her heart.

“But, I’m fine,” she told herself. 

She was fine-- she was over it now, no matter how empty it felt without him. Even if her head hurt from the tears she held back, even if her arms feel cold and her nights are sleepless.

She will be fine, because with how the world is now-- everything will get better.

She stood up, ready to leave.

“Myron!” 

She whirled around, surprised to hear Yaqut’s voice behind her. She was sure the man was with Muu today, in the kingdom of Kina with an errand from Aladdin. The blue-haired pre-midget was unusually ecstatic about it, so Lo’lo suspected that the Red Lions had some magical secret of Fanalis history or something.

Then, she saw it.

“Myron-san! Myron-san!” Razol charged into her, “you won’t believe what we found!”

Morgiana looked over, curious. 

Muu walked over with a chuckle of sorts. Draped over his figure, cradled in his arms like a baby, was a young Red Lion. It snuggled into the man’s hair like a playful puppy, except it would be a… very big… dog--

It leaped out of the man’s arms, and on its four strong feet it hopped across the canyon, to the next floating island, before landing cleanly on the platform. Then it ran toward Myron.

From the close distance, Myron could make it out.

The bright red fur, the metallic scales of its ears. No-- its  _ ear, _ because this cub was missing his left. It was young enough that its fangs have yet to set in, but its claws were perked and the burgundy sheen in its coat was still breathtaking. 

Myron didn’t need an explanation, she didn’t need to know  _ why _ or  _ how. _

She just  _ knew _ . 

Engulfed in a sort of quadruped hug, Myron stumbled back from the weight, but her arms rounded to the beast’s figure, and desperately she hugged back.

She’ll interrogate Muu later.

But for now-- she simply breathed in deeply. The so familiar, so nostalgic scent-- the moment it filled her nose, her heart warmed, warmed so much, she just broke into tears.

“Welcome back, Ayaan,” she choked out.

“Welcome Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand, there we end it! Thanks so much for reading this far, congratulations, you have made it to the conclusion of the story! Thanks for the hits, kudos, and comments, they bring me immeasurable amounts of joy in my life. You guys are awesome.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this journey as much as I have writing it!


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